


Curse-Breaking With A Manticore

by FlipSpring



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Draco is an ass, Fifth Hogwarts House, Gen, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Hogwarts Inter-House Unity, Humor, It's a Manticore yall, M/M, Magical Creatures, Occamy, Parselmouth Harry Potter, Parseltongue, Post Hogwarts AU, Sentient Technology, Swear Words, The Rumor Of Werewolves In The Forbidden Forest, but we love him anyway, what can i say
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-07
Updated: 2018-02-12
Packaged: 2019-01-30 15:35:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 41,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12656406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlipSpring/pseuds/FlipSpring
Summary: Draco runs into a manticore. Harry still has to take his NEWTs despite having defeated the greatest dark wizard ever. Somebody is trying to use the muggle Internet to blow the cover off the entire magical world. This fic updates 2 or 3 times per week.





	1. Draco: Meet The Manticore

**Author's Note:**

> Hey.  
> First off, I'm rambling along with this as I go, though I have the vaguest idea of a plot. This is the first time I’ve written anything in… a long ass time, thanks to an ongoing battle with my stupid brain chemistry.  
> All I’ve got with me is a newfound obsession with manticores, a renewfound obsession with HP, and a spite-fueled rocket of words in my mind.  
> Welcome y’all. Enjoy.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Malfoys run for it after the war, cuz they're weenies.

The Malfoys escaped the Battle of Hogwarts amongst the smoke and sting of cursefire, sprinting along the grounds as the air shimmered and boiled with magically murderous intent. Draco could feel the echoes of the surrounding spellwork deep in his chest, reverberating like the worst kind of orchestral cacophony. As soon as they were clear of the school wards, Narcissa grasped her husband and son, and twisted through the dimensions of the world. They Apparated into the foyer of the Manor.

Draco stumbled. His mother caught him, hugged him to her chest. She had been shorter than him for a while now, but all of a sudden he felt like a child again in her arms. He was shaking, the air trembling on its way in and out of his lungs, but his mother was steady as stone, warm as sunlight.

“We’re fucked,” he whispered, and his mother hugged him tighter.

He heard footsteps, and saw his father wobble out of the entrance hall.

“Mum,” Draco said, and his mother held him at arms length, stared at him, jaw set, eyes hollow.

“I’m giving the Singhs a call,” she said, “Why don't you go get cleaned up?”

She gave her best effort at a smile. It looked like it hurt.

“Yes, Mum,” Draco said.

She squeezed his arms, and let go, and headed to go use the Archway Mirror.

Draco stood there in the foyer for a while, staring at the crack in the floor tile where Macnair had dropped a muggleborn from ceiling-height. He stared at at the broken sconce as it flickered sporadically. That’s where Aunt Bellatrix had impaled a ministry hostage.

He looked down at his feet. There were still some prisoners in the cellars, probably. He started to feel sick, but then shut the feeling aside, and took to the stairs to his bedroom and bathroom.

The bath was drawn and steaming, scented with a clear, sweet smell that was reminiscent of (and nothing actually like) the seashore. He peeled his robes off, the smell of ash and sweat and magical discharge stinging his nose like static, and sank into the water.

**  


Draco was asleep and dreaming of nothing when his mother knocked at the door and opened it.

“Draco, darling,” she said.

He didn’t appreciate being brought back to consciousness.

“What.” He didn’t lift his head.

“We’re leaving. The Singhs would love to have us pay them a visit. It’s been so long since you’ve seen your fifth cousins, won’t that be nice?”

Draco opened an eye and stared at the dark silhouette of his mother in the doorway.

“When.”

“As soon as you’re ready.” Her silhouette departed the doorway.

He lay there in the dark, in the softness of his bed, balancing on the very edge between awake and asleep. He didn’t want to get up. He couldn’t.

“Get up,” he said to himself.

His mother came back at some point. He didn’t know how long it had been.

“Draco,” she said. Her voice was sharp.

He sat up.

“Join us down by the mirror in five minutes.”

And so he did. The Archway mirror rose from the floor, twisting with intricate knots and carvings, rising up and tapering to a point. The surface of the mirror shimmered and rippled like water, indistinct.

His father was sitting hunched on a hovering trunk. His mother took her wand out and touched the mirror surface, and ripples spread out from the tip, shimmering until the image of a warm and sunlit room appeared.

With that, she holstered her wand up her sleeve and stepped through. Draco glanced at his father, who had made no sign of moving from his trunk. Then he stepped through the archway after his mother.

The air that bathed him on the far side of the mirror was warm and thick with humidity, smelling pleasantly floral. A woman straightened up from where she had been bent over a desk. Her hair was greying, her brown skin wrinkled. Her smile was wide. She bowed her head slightly to Draco as he came through the archway. He returned the bow, more deeply.

“Oh, how tall you are now Draco,” said Lady Singh, in a voice accented by aristocracy and foreignness.

“Again, our most gracious thanks for your hospitality,” said Mother, producing a basket of fine wine and foodstuffs.

Lady Singh rebuffed the gift once, and then took it gracefully with a, “Oh, Narcissa! This was not necessary. It is lovely to have the opportunity to see one another after so long.”

“I feel the same,” Mother responded, with real warmth.

It was morning here in India, so Draco had the whole day to kill while his parents (well, primarily his mother) gossiped and chatted with Lady Singh. Narcissa's demeanor was poised, even joyful, betraying none of the turmoil their family had endured over the past few years. Draco joined them for tea for a while, and then excused himself the instant it was appropriate for him to do so.

“Oh, Draco,” said Lady Singh, as he left, “Do enjoy the gardens! We have quite a few unusual specimens. If you’d like to walk the full grounds please do be cautious, we have a few very rare and very dangerous endangered beasts. My daughter will be home in the evening, I’m sure she’d be happy to escort you around the grounds.”

And that led Narcissa to inquire about the beasts, and share land husbandry stories from the Manor, and so on and so forth.

Draco found his way to the gardens, eventually, and settled himself into an incredibly comfortable wicker-and-cushion chair. He watched the butterflies and pixies dance by, and the shadows crawl along the immaculately tended pathway.

It made sense for his mother to have evacuated them from Britain, but in his opinion it was a move that stank of guilt. It wouldn’t look good to the courts back home, if Potter won. He wondered, vaguely, if he would ever set foot back in the Manor, or if he would marry one of his fifth cousins here, join the Singh household, raise a family. The younger one was just five years older than him, he knew. As ancient and pure the Malfoy family was, Singh was even more ancient, and possibly purer. Thus tradition stated he would take the surname, and the messy Malfoy history would melt seamlessly away.

It seemed nice, he decided. His mother had figured it all out. But he had always vaguely imagined a union with one of his classmates – there were several with suitably pure lineages – growing up and inheriting his father’s place, sending his children off to Hogwarts. If he became a Singh here, he’d be out of touch, out of place in an unfamiliar culture and language. He’d have to pick up Arabic and Hindu and perhaps Urdu. He knew he could do it, but it would be a pain in the ass.

Would Potter win? Was he winning, now, all the way over in Britain, the golden savior boy that everybody loved, who always did the right thing in the right way at the right time. Who was good-hearted and noble and brave and beautiful, who, if he bested the Dark Lord, would surely have his pick of any partner who crossed his path. He would have a lovely, rich life and probably a hundred children. Or maybe, knowing him, he’d probably go ahead and pick some dirt-blooded muggle trash and settle down happily.

Draco covered his eyes with both palms. Fuck Harry Potter and all that noise. Fuck Voldemort.

He fell asleep in the garden chair, and woke just as the sun was setting.

A woman stood before him, younger than Lady Singh, with a glittering stud in her nose and sheer robes of delicate gold and green.

“Hello cousin,” she grinned, one hand on her hip, “Remember me?”

“Hello Samira,” he said, “And no I don’t.”

“Ha. What’s up? Is your mum trying to get us to fall in love?”

Draco snorted. She laughed, joyously and delicately, and tugged at the cloth draped over her head.

“So is it true then, that you’re all grown up and evil now?” her eyes flashed a little, and her grin widened.

“Just a little,” he responded, dryly.

“Hm,” she said, and eyed him up and down, “You’re skinny.”

“And you’re fat.”

“Except _I_ make it _work_ ,” she said, truthfully, “Well, we’ll probably never fall in love, cousin. But I’m told an exotic and well-bred husband with a slightly dark past would be good for my reputation. However, I’ll have you know I’ve been courting around, so you’ll have to bring a little bit more to the table. Come to dinner.”

Draco stood, and followed her to the dining room.

The next week passed in a haze of alternating naps and walks around the grounds with Samira. She’d always been a good cousin; mean enough to be fun, civil enough to be pleasant. But he spent most of his days sleeping, and she spent most of her nights out on the town.

“You should go with her to one of those parties she goes to,” Mother told him one afternoon, “If for nothing else, the chance to enjoy one of the largest all-magic cities in the world.”

“I went as a kid,” he said shortly.

“It’s different as an adult,” she said mildly, “I’d have thought you knew that. It worries me that you’re wasting your days and Lady Singhs’ hospitality with sleeping. Do you need to see a Healer?”

Draco shrugged. He didn't say that maybe sleeping was a great way not to get into any trouble. That maybe he was tired of wakeful life, which was full of bullshit like dark magic and political intrigue and reminders of his failures and expectations for his future and… What would he have done with his life, if all this crap with the Dark Lord had never happened? Lord around the Manor, probably. Make his opinions known at the Wizengamot. Pick up an aristocratic and expensive hobby, like pegasus-dressage. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do now. All he knew was guilt, and anger, and a bone-deep tiredness. And he slept easily, with occasional dreams, occasional nightmares, but those were hazy and faded and not all that real.

So it was strange, that one night he woke with a start. The moon was up, and bright. He stared at the ceiling for maybe an hour, before he sat up, put his robes on, and went out for a walk.

He strode through the palace, until he finally came to one of the back exits, which led into the thick vegetation behind the house. The trees chirped and hummed and buzzed with insect life, and he walked down the wide dirt road, the moon lighting his way in a silver almost as bright as daylight.

He was just thinking about turning and heading back, when he heard a sound behind him, like soft music, harps and flutes.

He turned.

There, standing in the road behind him, was a manticore.

It had to be a manticore, it could be nothing else. It had an angular human face, framed by a wild, dark mane. Its paws were enormous, and its tail arched over its back, gleaming menacingly in the moonlight, sting poised, spines trembling.

Who. In the fuck. Lets a manticore run wild on their property? The Singhs, apparently.

The soft music was coming from the manticore, and it advanced on him, step by step, eyes unblinking, mouth smiling.

When it had come so close Draco could have reached out and touched it, the music stopped.

His heart was pounding. He was rooted to the spot. He tried to recall any useful information about this beast.

_Hide almost impervious to magic. Swallows its prey whole. Incredibly violent. Difficult to subdue. Sting causes painful and swift death. Can shoot spines from its tail from a great distance._

Fuck if any of that was remotely useful. He let his wand fall into his hand. It was Protego or nothing, probably.

The manticore lunged at him, knocking him down before he could even shout out the spell, knocking his wand from his hand. The back of his head hit the ground painfully, the weight of the manticore on his chest suffocating him, and the creature’s face tilted back, as the manticore opened a huge jaw below its human-face, full of three sets of fangs and a great, writhing tongue.

Draco lay there, and stared past the manticore’s maw at the night sky.

“If you could eat me feet-first, please,” he said hoarsely, “I think I’d prefer that to headfirst.”

The manticore’s tongue writhed. And then slowly, its great monstrous jaw closed, and it tilted its false-face forward again, the dark human eyes blinking down him.

“Ohhh, you are funny,” it purred, “What’s your name?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review pls


	2. Harry: Bleeps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ron and Harry send an email

In the weeks after vanquishing Voldemort, Harry went home with Ron and Hermione to the Burrow. It felt like a life that was not his own, a blessed life bathed in a soft glow, especially after the absolute nightmare that was the past year. They played Quidditch, played Exploding Snap, had dinner with Andromeda and Teddy Tonks, visited an increasingly-lively Diagon Alley. It was as though Harry had finally opened his eyes, to find the world clearer and brighter and brand new. Even with the shadow of all that had been lost, even with the funerals, there was a light in his chest that was almost overwhelming.

But like most things, it wouldn’t quite last.

Harry and Ginny were out back feeding the chickens, when Ginny spoke up.

“I want to break up,” she said, and tossed a handful of feed down at her feet. The chickens clucked and rushed over one another in a hungry torrent.

It felt as though he’d been punched in the gut.

“What?”

Ginny didn’t look at him. She hid her face behind a gleaming curtain of fiery red hair. 

“Why?”

“I dunno,” she said, “I’m sorry. It’s been great, being with you, but…” She finally looked at him, looked away. “With everything that’s happened, you’ve just… turned into a symbol, I guess, even more than you were before. That’s part of it. And it’s not that I don’t like you, as a person, but. I guess I don’t love you. I need to move on from this part of my life. I’m not the girl who was infatuated with the golden boy any more.”

There was something squeezing Harry’s insides very, very tightly. The past few weeks with Ginny had been halcyon, dreamlike in their perfection. All of a sudden the sweet memories became so very painful.

 _“But I love you,”_ he wanted to say, but didn’t.

“Oh,” he said instead, and tossed some chicken feed to the ground.

 _“Can we still be friends?”_ he wanted to say, but didn’t.

He turned and went back into the Burrow.

And life wasn’t quite so golden after that. Hermione went and took an aeroplane to Australia to try and find her parents. Ron woke up with nightmares but refused to talk about it. Ginny was like a ghost in the house they shared.

“Hey, Ron,” Harry said, one morning at the breakfast table, casual as could be. Ginny put her plates in the sink and left the room, silently. “I’m going back to Grimmauld Place. Figure I ought to finish getting the place cleaned up. You want to come with?”

Ron looked at him, eyes slightly shadowed. “Yeah… Yeah, ‘course.”

Grimmauld Place was as grim as ever, with the Dumbledore wraith springing up from the carpet.

“We should find out who cast that and have them get rid of it,” Ron said, as the grey thing sank back into the floor, “It’s bloody creepy.”

“Oh, I dunno, it has its charm. Reminds you of mortality and all,” said Harry airily. Ron snorted.

They stood in the entrance hall, neither moving to step deeper into the house.

“You know,” said Harry, finally, “I’m gonna make this place _nice_. Sirius hated it and all, but we were all here together, right? It’s all I’ve got left from him.”

“That and the piles of Black family gold,” Ron reminded him.

“Right,” said Harry, trying not to sound bitter, “That’s what I get, instead of my family. Piles of gold.”

Ron was silent, and then said, “Sorry. I guess that was off-colour. But… I guess this means you’re the Heir of House Black, huh? Or are you the Heir of House Potter?”

“I don’t really care about that kind of thing,” Harry said, and took a step into the house, then another, and another. Ron followed after him.

“Yeah, I’m not telling you to go pull a Malfoy and get a stick transfigured up your arse,” said Ron. (Harry snorted.) “But that kind of thing does matter a bit, where the law’s concerned.”

“You think if I changed my name to Black, I’d stop getting those piles of fan mail?” Harry asked.

“Could be worth a shot,” said Ron.

“I’ll have to think about it. But in the meantime let’s get this place feeling less dank. I think a change in wallpaper could work, don’t you?”

“Hm, yeah, I guess,” said Ron, glancing at the dark, mildewy wall.

**

Their first letter from Hermione arrived at Grimmauld place two weeks into their redecoration, and spoke of frustration and impatience. She hadn’t found her parents yet. The international Floos were regulated and expensive, and when she’d tried using it her head had spun through the fire for thirty minutes, only to find that Harry and Ron were no longer at the Burrow. She demanded that they get an email account, and wrote her own address: _bookwyrm@aol.com_.

“What’s an ‘ _eh-mail_ ’?” Ron asked, reading over Harry’s shoulder. He had a red bandana tied around his head that clashed horribly with his hair, and was holding a duster.

“It’s a muggle thing. They’re like letters, sent through electricity.”

“Well why are they any better than owls, then?”

“They’re much faster,” said Harry, “Hermione’s right, I ought to get a computer. I’ve got to go to Gringotts to exchange the money. You want to come?”

“Oh fuck yes,” said Ron, throwing duster down on the kitchen table, “The dishes can get bloody well fucked.”

They changed into Muggle clothes and Floo’d to Diagon Alley. Another boarded-up store had reopened, displaying a new wave of jewel-tone dress robes in the front window.

Harry had a grey beanie pulled low over his forehead, and a coat turned up at the collar to hide some of his face, but still attracted his fair share of stares and fawning. They went to Gringotts, and then on the way out Ron professed a desire to stock back up on owl treats. Once there, they ran into Luna Lovegood.

“Oh, hello,” she said, “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

“Yeah,” said Harry, as Ron went to the counter to pay for the treats.

“Good job with You-Know-Who,” she said, “But I suppose you hear that a lot.”

“A lot doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

She smiled. “Well, I’d best be going, I’ve got an interview at the menagerie. It was nice seeing you again. Come visit sometime, I’ve improved my Plimpy soup recipe.”

“’Course,” said Harry, as Ron showed back up.

“Bye,” she said, and glided out the door.

Ron stowed the large bag of owl treats in his magically-enhanced pocket, and the two of them strode out the door. They exited Diagon through the Leaky Cauldron, and began their wandering search for a computer store.

“Hey, Ron, d’you suppose we ought to be looking for jobs?” Harry asked, as they stopped in front of a display of muggle toys which seemed to greatly interest Ron.

Ron groaned. “Merlin, Harry, I don’t want to think about that. And you don’t have to worry about a thing, what’s anyone going to do if you show up at their office looking for a job? Turn away the _Boy Who Bloody Lived_?”

“I’ll tell them I need you to do all my work for me,” Harry said.

Ron grinned, turning away from the shop window. “Cheers. But I’m not doing shit for you ever again. Look what you roped me into last time.”

Harry hummed in response, and they went on their way.

They finally found a computer store, and purchased a blue Macintosh. The clerk had showed them all kinds of models and told them about RAMS and memory, but Harry didn’t really know the difference. He though the blue would look nice in Sirius’ old room. It would match with the new curtains they’d put in. As long as the computer sent emails, he wasn’t too fussed.

As he carried the heavy thing out of the store, a thought struck him.

“Oh, crap.”

“What?” Ron asked.

“There aren’t any outlets at Grimmauld Place, are there?”

“Outlets?”

Harry looked down at the boxed computer in his arms, “Is it even possible to wire the place for Internet?”

Ron looked alarmed. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Harry, this is the sort of thing you think about before you drop galleons on a load of muggle junk.”

Harry groaned.

“We could ask Dad, though, he’s got all sorts of muggle things to work at the Burrow.”

“Oh, good.”

They found a secluded alley and Apparated home.

Ron’s dad was highly enthusiastic at the prospect of setting up a muggle Internet device, “Strictly for academic purposes, of course, you two won’t be using this contooter, will you?”

“Oh, of course not, Mister Weasley.”

Arthur nodded. “Good. The more complicated the machine, the more… liable it is to develop sentience and such, so, it’s best to be cautious. The laws are there for good reason.”

Harry tried to look vaguely interested and not deeply guilty.

They did eventually manage to get the computer running and connected to the Internet, and Harry wrote an email to Hermione, with Ron watching with rapt interest over his shoulder.

 _From: hedwig4ever@aol.com_  
_To: bookwyrm@aol.com_  
  
_Hi Hermione,_  
_This is Harry, I got a computer. It’s kind of confusing._  
_We’re at Grimmauld place, cleaning the place up._  
_Have you found your parents yet?_  
_Harry_

He sent it. The two of them waited in front of the screen for a minute.

“Did it work?” Ron wanted to know.

“I guess,” said Harry, “The three of us should’ve gotten enchanted mirrors or something, this is so complicated, with the logging on and the typing.”

“Those are pricey though,” said Ron, “If this works, it’ll be a way better deal. Plus, this computer thing is super cool.”

The computer chirped an electronic noise that sounded almost proud.

“Aw,” said Ron, “Look, it’s happy. We should name it.”

“Uh, sure. I’m gonna go make lunch.”

“We’ll call it Bleeps,” said Ron, smugly, “How do you like that, Bleeps?”

Bleeps bleeped happily.

Harry floated the Daily Prophet over the kitchen counter as he prepared the ham sandwiches. There was an article about upcoming Death Eater trials. The Malfoy family had apparently fled to India, which made it incredibly difficult to bring them into court. Aurors had been trying for weeks, but kept running up against the bueraucracy of the Indian magical government.

Harry sliced an apple and frowned. Maybe this was an opportunity to try treading down the path of an Auror, start a career, get a job, but for some reason the idea didn't particularly appeal to him. He'd had quite enough of Voldemort and his followers to last him a hundred lifetimes. He put an apple slice in his mouth and bit down on it, sweetness bursting.

He turned a page on the hovering Prophet and saw another article, about the re-opening of Hogwarts. Repairs were still very much needed, and there were still teaching positions to be filled, but the school was hoping to open on schedule, and there was talk of hosting an eighth year, so that students from the previous year could have a do-over with their education. Nothing was settled yet.

"Oi!" Ron called, from somewhere upstairs, "Bleeps is fucking awesome!"

Harry snorted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Review plss


	3. Draco: Riddle Me This

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A friendly life-or-death riddle match, and a shopping trip.

“Your name, pale one?” the manticore asked, eyes gleaming red, and Draco felt the points of claws dig slightly into his robes.

“Draco… Malfoy,” he wheezed.

“How about this, Dray-co Mal-foy,” hissed the manticore, “since you are a chatty child instead of a screaming one, which is quite a rare treat! I’ll tell you a riddle, and you take one guess. If you win, I’ll let you go. If you lose…” the manticore tilted its face back, grinning with its three rows of monster teeth.

“Fine.”

The manticore tilted its face forward again, smiling. “If a blue house is made out of blue bricks, a yellow house is made out of yellow bricks, and a red house is made out of red bricks, what is a green house made of?”

 _“Green bricks,”_ he almost gasped, but stopped himself. Riddles were practically never the obvious answer. What is a green house made of? A greenhouse? 

“Glass,” he said. The manticore narrowed its eyes, but its grin widened.

“Best two of three, Dray-co.”

“You said if I win…”

The claws dug into his chest. Was he just going to have to keep besting the manticore at riddling until daylight broke and someone came looking for him? His wand was just barely out of reach. He’d never been good at wandless magic, but maybe… maybe he could pull it to him while the beast was distracted.

He said, “How about this? We take turns asking riddles. If you miss one, you let me go. If I miss one… you don’t.”

The manticore tilted its head. “Tell me a riddle, Draco.”

Draco wracked his brain for riddles. He’d read a book of them, he thought, when he was a child. Hell if he remembered any good ones.

“Okay,” he said, feeling sweat start to dampen his neck, “If I have it, I don’t share it. If I share it, I don’t have it. What is it?”

The manticore tilted its head in the other direction. It was growling, softly, as it stared down at him.

“Well?” Draco demanded.

“…A secret,” said the manticore, “Ooh, I liked that one. Now it’s my turn. What is the beginning of eternity, the end of time and space, the beginning of every end, and the end of every place?”

Merlin’s pants. He tried focusing on pulling the wand to his hand. No dice. He was hardcore going to die in the gut of a manticore.

“Well?” the manticore demanded.

“Give me a second!” Draco snapped, “You took your sweet time with mine.”

 _Accio!_ He screamed, inside his head, ignoring the riddle, focusing on one thing only. _Come on!_

He felt his wand fly into his hand, and shouted, _“Protego!”_

The manticore snarled as a shield burst between them, shoving it back and away from him. He sat up, shakily, wand held aloft, shield shimmering faintly in the air. The manticore stalked around him, searching for a crack in the shield, and Draco followed it with his wand.

“Dray-co,” the manticore sang, and soft, lilting music started to hum from its monster throat once more, “You didn’t answer my riddle.”

The answer came to him, painted in his mind’s eye. This one was a word game.

“The letter E,” he spat, “And that’s two of three. Let me go.”

The manticore sat down on its haunches and stared at him, face cocked slightly to the right. Its stinging tail lashed left and right.

“Why are you here in my forest, anyway?” it asked him.

Draco fought a groan of frustration and exhaustion. He reminded himself that he now had a shield between himself and the beast, which was a much better circumstance to be in than pinned wandless.

“I couldn’t sleep.”

“Oh? But why are you _here?_ In my _forest?_ ”

“I’m visiting the Singhs,” he said.

“The Singhs,” the manticore repeated, “Ah. Tell me, have you met Samira?”

“My mother’s hoping I marry her,” he said dully, “But it’s not going great.”

“Ohhhhh,” said the manticore, eyes widening, “Ohhhh! You’re Dray-co Mal-foy! You’re family!”

“Uh,” said Draco, “Yes, I did tell you so. Are you going to let me walk home now or not?”

“I’ll escort you,” said the manticore importantly, getting to its feet, “I’ll make sure nothing in this forest tries to snatch you. There are quite dangerous creatures living here, you know?”

“Delightful,” said Draco acidly, “You’ll forgive me if I leave my shield up.”

The manticore laughed, and its music faded. “Lady Singh should’ve told me we had guests. But c’mon. I was so _hungry_ for human flesh, you can’t blame me for trying.”

“Bloody hell,” Malfoy muttered, under his breath.

The manticore padded alongside him all the way down the road. They arrived at the back door of the Singh palace, and the manticore sat back down on its haunches.

“Hey,” it said, its face suddenly serious. He still had his wand out in front of him, holding the shield steady.

He narrowed his eyes, backing up against the door.

“Do me a favor, pale one?”

“Depends on the favor.”

“Invite me into the palace.”

Draco snorted. “Not a chance.”

The manticore’s tail lashed, once. “Pretty please?”

“Like I said, not a bloody chance in hell.”

“Fine, you inedible, intractable _bone-tower_. Then tell Samira, I remember what she’s done.”

Without waiting for a reply, the manticore stood, whirled, and loped off into the night.

Draco stood at the doorway for a while, staring into the forest, insect-song ringing in the air. He finally took down the shield and went back inside.

He wouldn’t sleep again that night.

**

Just after dawn, Draco went down to the dining patio in the gardens. Samira was already there, looking sleepy. Her usually immaculate hair was slightly disheveled, her robes informal and beige-toned. She had a book floating open in front of her, and a glass of juice in her hand.

“You’re up early,” he said to her, and pulled up a chair. A spread of warm food and cold, glistening fruit appeared in front of him.

She looked up from her book, and absently wiped at the corner of her eye.

“You too,” she said.

Draco picked up a fork and helped himself to a strawberry. “I went for a walk in the grounds last night.”

She kept looking at him. She raised a wand and waved it vaguely, and the book vanished with a soft _whoosh_.

“That was bold of you. Didn't Mother warn you about the beasts?”

The corner of his mouth twitched. “I ran into a manticore. Please tell me you only have one of those murderous beasts on your grounds?”

Samira’s face remained studiously impassive. “Just the one. I’m impressed you’re still here in the waking world.”

“It very nearly ate me,” he said, as casually as possible, “But in the end it walked me back and asked to be invited in.”

Her face was almost rigid in its expressionlessness. “And did you?”

“Of course not,” he said, deeply insulted, “Do I look like an idiot?”

After another second of blankness, Samira cracked a smile, “Oh come on, cousin, you’re just begging for it now.”

“It had a message for you. _‘I remember what you’ve done.’_ I don’t suppose you’ll tell me what that means?”

“Nope,” she said cheerfully, and waved her wand again. The book popped back into being. “Come with me to town today, I’ve got some shopping to do.”

**

The downtown turned out to be much louder and more colorful than Draco remembered. The streets were narrow to begin with, and crowded with small stalls full of witches and wizards selling their wares.

Samira slipped through the crowd as easily as water, and Draco fought to keep her in sight, desperately keeping his eyes fixed on the shimmering golden scarf she had draped over head. He suspected it had been enhanced with an Allurement Charm, which thankfully made it easier to follow.

Abruptly, his fifth-cousin squeezed gracefully between two stalls and stepped into a storefront, and when Draco tried to follow her he nearly toppled a delicate stack of crystal cauldrons, and was shouted at for it. He had no idea how Samira, who was surely two or three times as wide as him, was able to navigate the tight spaces with ease.

The store was dimly lit, and pungent with the smell of a thousand spices. He swept his eyes across the store and concluded it must be a specialty apothecary for potion ingredients. Jars and boxes and shelves were stacked floor to ceiling along every wall. Barrels and baskets each labeled in three unrecognizable languages littered the floor. An incredibly bored-looking witch sat behind the counter, wearing three glass lenses over one eye and inspecting an silver egg held in her gloved hand. On the counter was a small basket with two more eggs, and Samira’s elbows. She was chatting animatedly at the stoic witch, who eventually set the egg back in the basket and shrugged, shook her head, tapped a hand on the counter.

Samira’s grin did not slip, and the two witches argued back and forth, until eventually the clerk nodded and took two of the three eggs. She put them behind the counter, and withdrew a cloth sack that clinked as she set it down on the counter. Samira took the sack, stowed it up her sleeve, and then did the same with the basket. 

She turned, golden scarf swirling gently around her as she did so. “Draco! Anything you want from here?”

He shook his head, and watched her purchase a paper bag and several glass jars of ingredients, which she stowed up her sleeve. She then zipped out the apothecary, and he trailed after her.

And so he spent the rest of that morning continually trying to chase down Samira as she went from store to stand to store, selling and buying and selling again. He wondered if this was some sort of test of athletics, and tried not to think about how he’d rather be back at the palace sleeping.

When the sun reached a blazing heat overhead, the two of them stopped at a marble fountain in the middle of a square. Draco felt the cooling charms in his robe working overtime, cool air breezing through his sleeves, but sweat still prickled at his forehead.

“I love this fountain,” Samira said, sitting down at the marble edge. She produced about five plates of food from up her sleeve and gestured for him to sit down. He did.

“You’ve been running me through an obstacle course,” he said, picking up a small dumpling-like thing from its floating plate and biting into it.

“And you’ve been keeping up pretty well,” she grinned, “But hm, how do I put this? I think you ought to go back to England.”

He stared at her, silently, and raised his eyebrows slightly, putting on and expression of mild discontent.

“Why put me through this rigamarole this morning, then?” he demanded.

“Oh, I didn’t want anyone to overhear us,” she said, “Look, I like you well enough, but I’m not all that comfortable with the fact that your home country’s enforcement officers are after you. Our palace is not some kind of refugee camp. You ought to go sort that out first, and then come back and see if I’m still available.”

He took another bite of the dumpling, chewed, swallowed. The spices left his whole mouth tingling.

“You’re awfully blunt, aren’t you?” he observed, “And you already knew my family was having a… political vacation at your house. Why are you bringing this up now?”

She shrugged. “Hey, it’s not my fault your family sided with some nutter who wanted to exterminate the dirty lower castes or whatever it was. A foolish thing to do, if you ask me. If we didn’t have the dirty lower castes, just who would you and I be superior to?”

“You haven’t answered my question,” he said, narrowing his eyes.

She took a piece of naan and dipped it into a sauce. “I guess… I’ve started to like you a little bit better. But I don’t like your baggage. And also…” she paused, leaned in, “I’m worried about you being enchanted by that beast.”

“What beast, the manticore?”

Samira nodded.

“You have got to be joking.”

“I’m deadly serious,” she said, though she was smiling faintly, “That creature is under a curse, only to be lifted if it eats enough people and enchants enough people. I’ve had three suitors fall in love with it already. And eaten. Wait.” She held up a hand, and counted on her fingers, “Yeah, three.”

Draco stared at her, completely at a loss. She surely had to be pulling his leg.

“It’s a _manticore_ ,” he said.

“Well, if you can survive the manticore, you can survive my family. But I don’t want _your_ Malfoy family Dark Lord politics cramping my style in the future. So, here is my proposal to you.”

She held out one hand, and the third, unsold silver egg rolled out onto her palm.

“I, Samira, heir of line Singh, set you these challenges three: First, tame the creature that hatches from this egg. Next, clear your name in the court of England. Finally, take the manticore that stalks our forest with you to your homeland, and slay it. If you do these things, we may marry.”

Draco looked at her. She looked dead serious. The henna winding around her fingers and wrist began to glow a faint gold.

“You _do_ like me,” he said, faintly surprised, “Even though you go out partying every night.”

“That’s part of the reason I like you,” she said, “you don’t get in my way.”

He considered Samira. This was a formal sort of marriage request from her, very traditional, modern only in that she had issued it directly, rather than having their parents work it out. Magically binding. They had come to know each other quite well over the past few weeks, and Draco found that he did like her well enough.

He took the egg from her hand. “I accept your challenges.”

She smiled.

He raised the egg up to eye-level. It was speckled with shimmering flecks of tyrian purple. “What sort of egg is this?” he asked.

Her smile widened, “If I told you, that’d be cheating, wouldn’t it?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While manticores are not known for riddling, sphinxes are... and manticores are technically sphinx-type, aren't they? With the face of a human and the body of a lion.
> 
> Psst. Review?


	4. Harry: Exalted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry gets a shocking shift in status & wealth.

_From: bookwyrm@aol.com_  
_To: hedwig4ever@aol.com_

_Harry,_

_No luck tracking down my parents. I’ve tried emailing them but no response, they probably think it’s spam. They seem to have moved away from the original address they settled at last year. I’ve collected all these phone books and combed them, but none of the Wilkinses I’ve called are the ones I’m looking for. It’s terribly frustrating, and I’m having worries that I might never find them. Lately I’ve been searching the Sydney Magical Library for any useful tracking spells, but it’s slow going._

_Any news on your end? Both in your personal life and in the magical world at large. The Prophet doesn’t deliver to Australia, obviously. Best of luck with Grimmauld Place!_

_Hermione_

**

It was a rainy day in early July, when Harry received a letter from Gringotts. It was a crisp white envelope addressed with red ink. He opened it at the table with the knife he had buttered the toast with, and slid out the heavy parchment.

Ron glanced at the swirling, baroque letter G decorating the discarded envelope. “You’d better not tell me you’re broke, Harry. I’ll divorce you.” Ron grinned, and took a sip of tea.

“Har, har,” Harry responded, and scanned the letter, “It says I’ve got to go in and talk to one of their advisors?”

Ron spat his tea out across the table. The spittle nearly hit Harry’s plate.

“Ron!”

“I didn’t spit on purpose this time!” Ron protested.

Harry raised his eyebrows. “I’d believe you if you didn’t do that every single time I opened a letter.”

“It’s become a bit of a reflex,” Ron admitted, “But blimey, Harry. If a Gringotts advisor wants to talk to you in person, one of your rich relatives just kicked the bucket and left you another pile of gold. Or you really are broke.”

“Crap,” said Harry, looking back down at the letter in his hand.

“The advisors don’t bother inviting _us_ in to tell us we’re broke, though,” Ron said thoughtfully, “But that could just be because it happens every other year.”

“But who could’ve died and left me anything? I thought all my family were already dead?” Harry felt his stomach sink. To think he might’ve lost family he didn’t even know about…

Ron snapped his fingers. “Oh, I’ve got it! It must be one of those pure-blood Death Eater lineages that got snuffed out in the war. You were probably the closest Heir or something. Potter is a pure line, after all.”

Harry wasn't sure how to feel about that.

Ron stared at him silently from across the table. “…Harry, would it be rude of me to ask if I can come along?”

Harry shrugged. “Probably, but I _want_ you to come with me. If I’m broke or related to Death Eaters, I’d like some moral support.”

“Excellent.”

**

After dressing in neat set of muggle clothes, Harry waited by the fireplace for his friend to join him so they could set off to Gringotts. When Ron finally appeared, wearing a smart-looking set of wizard’s robes that Harry hadn’t seen before, his eyes bulged.

“Harry, I know you’re famous as hell, but you can’t go to a Gringotts advisor meeting in those!”

“Erm…” Harry looked down at his clothes, “…Why not?”

“Why not?” Ron stared disbelievingly at him, and then cracked a grin, “You know what, forget it. This is great. Nobody’ll say anything to you. You’ll probably end up starting a whole fashion trend of muggle couture.”

Harry scowled at Ron, suddenly feeling embarrassed about his attire, and moreover that it hadn’t occurred to him to get himself robes that weren’t a black school uniform.

Shaking his head, Ron grabbed a handful of Floo powder, stepped into the fire, and shouted for Diagon Alley. Harry followed after him.

Once in Gringotts, Harry showed a goblin the letter he received. The goblin grunted, pointed at a door in the far corner of the bank, and gestured impatiently for Harry to get moving.

“Gotta love the service here,” Ron muttered, but so only Harry could hear. He likely didn’t have a desire to experience a death-by-offended-goblin.

Through the door was a small, mousey-looking human man sitting behind a small desk. The room was quiet compared to the main foyer of the bank, though full of cubicles and soft murmuring.

“How may I help you sirs?” the man asked.

Harry gave him the letter. The man perused it, and then looked up to stare at Harry’s forehead. Thankfully, he made no comment. “You’ll be wanting to speak to Advisor Ripley. Follow me.” He slipped out of his chair and scurried between the cubicles.

They stopped in front of a particularly messy cubicle with papers stacked and leaning against the walls, with books piled on and below the desk, with an anxious-looking witch scribbling line after line with a bent quill. Her curly hair stuck out in all directions as though electrified, and her hat was askew. Harry was strongly reminded of Hermione in the week before exams.

The man cleared his throat. The witch didn’t look up. “Advisor Ripley! Mister Potter is here to see you.”

She still didn’t look up, but suddenly muttered to herself and began shuffling through a sloping stack of paper files.

“ _Harry Potter_ is here to see you,” said the man.

At this, the witch paused, and looked up at them. She adjusted her glasses.

“Oh, he’s early,” she said. Her tone suggested that this was an inconvenience. “Thank you Mister Puddingwump.”

Mr. Puddingwump bowed slightly and took his leave.

“Sit, sit,” said Advisor Ripley. A second later, she seemed to realize there were no chairs. “ _Where_ is my blasted wand?” she hissed, and began searching under her desk.

“Er, I’m fine with standing,” said Harry.

“No, no, no, you’ll want to be sitting for this,” said her voice, muffled from beneath the desk. “Ah, here it is.”

She sat up, adjusted her hat, and flourished her wand. A pair of wooden chairs appeared. One of them seemed to have a broken leg. Ripley frowned, and waved her wand again.

Fluffy blue cushions appeared on the chairs.

Advisor Ripley nodded, apparently satisfied. “Sit.”

Harry sat in the broken chair, and tried not to wobble. Ron took the other chair.

“Tea?” Ripley asked.

“Thanks,” said Ron.

“No thanks,” said Harry.

Ripley swept aside a pile of what appeared to be wriggling paperclips, unearthing a teacup full of half-drunk tea. She plucked a thrashing paperclip out of the cup, waved her wand at it, and the tea refilled almost to the brim. She handed this to Ron, who looked as though he dearly wished he’d declined.

“So,” she said, with great resignation, “Harry Potter.”

“Er, yes, that’s me,” said Harry Potter.

Advisor Ripley stared at him for a bit. Harry felt supremely uncomfortable, and braced himself for a delighted gush of thanks for saving the world and et cetera.

“You’ve caused me the _worst_ headache,” Ripley said finally.

“Well, you know, you’re welcome…” Harry started, and then stopped, “Erm. I mean. Um. Sorry?”

“The worst headache,” Ripley repeated, “A veritable migraine. And my usual potion won’t make it go away. Your case has been an absolute unprecedented nightmare. That’s the technical term for it. The ancient legal books I’ve had to read! The ancient pureblood houses that have threatened to kill me! And that’s why it’s taken me so long to sort it out enough to even get in touch with you.”

Harry glanced at Ron. Ron had drunk some of the tea to be polite, and appeared to have succeeded in suppressing the urge to spit it all back out.

Advisor Ripley turned in her seat and picked up an absolutely staggering stack of papers, parchments, and wriggling paperclips. She turned back to face him and placed the stack in her lap.

“You’ll have to take these home with you and go over them yourself,” she said, “They are an outline of your inheritance. Fortunes, heirlooms, lands, titles, party votes, deeds, dwellings, everything from twenty-five Houses. Well, maybe not everything. Like I’ve said, it’s been a nightmare trying to track it all down. There are probably offshore accounts.”

Harry boggled at her. “Um. _What?”_

Ripley nodded emphatically, “That’s exactly what I said! The long and short of it, Mister Potter, is that you won the right to all of You-Know-Who’s possessions by conquest.”

“Wait, seriously?”

“Seriously,” said Ripley grimly, “And while You-Know-Who himself didn’t strictly own much in the way of material goods, his followers certainly did.”

“Bloody hell,” Ron whispered, “You don’t mean…?”

“Yes. I’ve researched it up, down, and sideways. When the Death Eaters pledged themselves to You-Know-Who, they pledged all of their assets, abilities, and powers. And you’ve inherited them.”

Harry felt slightly sick.

Ron was trembling. “Agent Ripley. Does… does that include the Malfoys?”

“Yes.”

Ron let out a whoop, nearly spilling the teacup. “Harry! You’ve nicked all of Malfoy’s shit!”

Advisor Ripley stared witheringly at him. “Well,” she said haughtily, “All assets are currently frozen until the law can fully process the shift. Every family affected by this is going to fight back tooth and nail. At least, the ones with surviving heirs who are not destined for Azkaban. There’s Death Eaters of eleven houses still alive, and the trials have yet to decide their fate. I’d also watch out for some of their Lesser branches related to the Houses you conquered who’ll surely argue they have a stake to the inheritance. You ought to hire some solicitors as quickly as possible and push through it.”

She held up the massive stack of papers. “Take this. Read it. And get back to me only after you’ve hired a solicitor or three.”

Harry took the tower of papers. They weighed a metric ton.

He stared at Advisor Ripley over the top of the pile.

“Er… Thanks?

“You’re welcome, Harry Potter, Heir of twenty-five god-damned Houses,” she said, unsmiling. She took the mostly-full teacup back from Ron, drained it, and turned to face her desk once more.

“Does twenty-five count the two he’s already Heir of?” Ron asked.

“Twenty-seven, then,” Ripley grumbled, “One more word and I’ll start charging you for my time.”

**

 _From: hedwig4ever@aol.com_  
_To: bookwyrm@aol.com_

 _Hermione,_  
_This is the most insensitive thing I’ll probably ever say to you but please find your parents soon, because I really, really, really need your help!_  
_Harry_  
_P.S. Sorry._  
_P.P.S. You’re a genius, so I already know you’ll find your parents soon._  
_P.P.P.S. But like seriously I need your help_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How rich is he now? Filthy
> 
> Review it y;'all


	5. Draco: Cinnabar and Silver

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Malfoys go home

Draco sought out his mother the afternoon of the proposal. She was relaxing at a glass-spun table in her guest sitting-room, sipping a cup of chai and tinkering with some priceless mechanical artifact. Narcissa smiled, just slightly, when Draco told her of Samira’s proposal. The smile dropped when he told her of the challenges.

“A _manticore?”_ she whispered.

“I’ve… actually already met the beast. It was quite the chatty thing. I don’t think slaying it is an impossible task.”

His mother narrowed her eyes. “Draco, manticores are as dangerous as they come. They’re untamable and vicious. I’m rather concerned about what Miss Singh’s intentions might be.”

Draco frowned. “That’s odd, since I got the impression that the manticore was acting as a guard for the palace. Why else would they let it run loose on the grounds? It was fairly amicable once it realized I was a guest.”

“… Well, perhaps Indian wizards have some secret when it comes to handling the creatures. But I don’t like these challenges. Shouldn’t they typically be three impossibly expensive gifts, not three impossible tasks? Show me the egg she gave you.”

Draco pulled it from his pocket and handed it to her. The egg was smooth, warm, and vibrated from time to time. His mother held it up and examined it.

“What is this?”

Draco shrugged. “Can’t be any worse than a manticore, can it?”

Narcissa shot him a dark look.

**

Draco was half changed out of his robes that evening when Samira barged into his room without knocking.

“Ohhhhh my goodness, Draco!” she exclaimed, “I’d almost forgotten!”

“Do you _mind?”_ he demanded, scrambling to put his outer layer back on.

She waved a hand. “No, I don’t. Here, I need to give you this.”

He glared at her. “Were you raised in an overpriced barn, Samira? Do you call these manners?”

“I have manners when they matter. Here, hold out your hand.”

He did. She dropped three red stones into his palm. Each was carved into the shape of a lion.

“Cinnabar. They’re enchanted, obviously. If you have one on your person, the manticore will obey you. Be specific though, it likes to find loopholes.”

Draco looked down at the little red lions, and then back up at his potentially-betrothed. “Samira, you are entirely too unreadable.”

“How so? If you had no way of controlling the manticore, you’d surely die. Give the other two to your parents. Ta! I’m running late to my soirée.”

She waved, and left him clutching the red stones in his hand. He glanced over at the dresser, upon which the mystery egg sat.

“What do you suppose she’s playing at?” he asked the egg. It did not answer.

**

After sleeping in past noon the next day, Draco took the egg and went down to the Singh’s library. There were plenty of books on magical creatures, but only a few of them were in English. He flipped through those, page after page, searching for any and all mention of eggs.

Finally, he found it.

_The pure and softe silver Occamie eggs are of much value._

“Occamie,” he whispered to himself, “Occamie, occamie. I’ve heard of that before.”

Possibly it had been mentioned in his Care of Murderous Monsters class. Or possibly not, Hagrid being a total joke of a professor. Either way, Draco wouldn’t have paid enough attention except to pass the exams, at which point he would have purged the useless information from his head.

Draco pocketed the egg, replaced the book, and went to the back exit of the palace. His family would be departing today or tomorrow. He wanted to test whether the cinnabar lion really held sway over the manticore.

The forest was a completely different thing in the daytime, with golden sunlight and birdsong permeating the air. He walked down the road, wand at the ready.

“Manticore!” he shouted, “Are you there?”

There was a trill of a flute behind him, and he whirled. “Protego!”

“Aw, come on, li’l pale one,” said the manticore, “I thought we were past this?”

The manticore, too, looked different in the daylight. Its pelt was bloody red, just like the cinnabar stone in his pocket, and its dark mane was shot with gold. Its tail though, was as deadly and sinister as ever.

“Sit,” said Draco.

The manticore sat. It lashed its tail. “She gave you one of those bloody rocks, didn’t she?”

“Do not wound, attack, touch, confuse, frighten, distract me or otherwise cause me harm,” said Draco, and tentatively put down his shield.

The manticore rolled its eyes.

“Do you have a name?” Draco asked.

The manticore looked at him. “Oh, are we friends now?”

“Tell me your name.”

The manticore rolled its eyes again. “I don’t have one now. I used to. But it’s since been erased.”

“You will be coming with me and my family to England. You are not to attack, wound –”

“Tickle, prank, annoy, blah blah blah…”

“–Touch, confuse, manipulate, distract, frighten, and yes, tickle, prank, annoy, or otherwise cause harm to my family, or our house elves, or our guests. You may pin or incapacitate intruders, but you may not mortally wound or kill them. You may not damage, destroy, or tamper with our belongings, our buildings, or our gardens. You will stay on our grounds, and not wander off.”

The manticore lay down on the ground, and then rolled over on its back, displaying a surprisingly fluffy-looking underbelly. “Ugh. Ugggggghhhh. I don’t want to go to England. Sounds cold. And you’re being _such_ a nag. _Don’t kill this, don’t maim that_ …”

Draco looked at the fluffy underbelly, and squashed an irrational urge to pet it. With the manticore being completely obedient, he was finding it more difficult to think of it as a monster, and not an overlarge housecat.

“Are you a boy or a girl?”

“I’m a manticore,” said the manticore, rolling back upright, “Ughhhh, you are being such a bore, Draco. Can we do riddles?”

“Maybe later. I need to go pack.”

“Riddles later,” said the manticore, licking its chops. “And bring me some duck. I miss duck.”

**

The next day Draco and his family were packed. They said their goodbyes to the Singhs, and Draco went and fetched the manticore, who was waiting by the forest out back. He tossed it the body of a duck, which it caught in its mouth and swallowed whole.

The Malfoys and the manticore passed through the mirror and arrived at the manor. The air at home was cold, and stale.

His mother clapped her hands, and the windows in the room opened wide, letting in a chill, damp air.

“Ohhh, I was right, I hate the cold,” said the manticore.

Narcissa and Lucius both started at the voice.

“Well, you’re going outside,” said Draco. Until he could find out how to kill it. But he didn’t say that.

The manticore growled, rumbling and low. Draco’s father flinched back, and then left the room at double pace.

“It’s _cold_ ,” the creature complained, “Put on a fire and leave me in front of it.”

Draco exchanged a glance with his mother.

“Fine. But you are to stay in that room,” his mother said to the manticore. Draco saw her clutch at something in her pocket. He didn’t have to guess what it was. He had his hand on a cinnabar lion, too.

The manticore grinned. “And bring me some eggs. I’m hungry.”

Narcissa looked at Draco. “Go settle the beast down in the west sunroom.” And she swept away.

The manticore twitched its tail. “So why’d you bring me to this shithole?”

“Watch your mouth,” Draco snapped, “Or I’ll order you to shut it. Follow me.” He strode out of the room and down the hall, heading to the sunroom. He heard music tinkling behind him.

In the sunroom, he conjured a large bowl, and within the bowl, a magical fire. The fire took him a couple tries. The flames crackled red and roared upwards, bathing his face with a welcome heat.

The manticore paced around the bowl. “Nice.” It settled down on the floor with paws outstretched in front of it, and blinked its eyes closed.

Draco left the sunroom, shutting the door behind him.

He found his mother in the main dining room, opening letters and scattering them across the table. Her face was pinched.

“What is it?” he asked.

“All the annoyances I expected,” she muttered, “Summons to court, of course, accusations and charges pressed, and…” she paused, ripping open another envelope and scanning the letter. Her pale face grew even paler.

“What?”

“Our accounts with Gringotts have been frozen.” She threw the letter down and sorted through the pile, picking up and opening another. “And the one in Audair too.”

“ _What!_ They can’t do that, can they?”

His mother looked grim. “Apparently they can. I’m going to have to open up some of our personal vaults to hire the legal help. How dare they, thinking they can hold our assets hostage to lure us to court. We aren’t some common filth…” She whirled on her heel letter in her fist, and headed to the far side of the room, to the fireplace. 

Draco held the egg in one pocket, the red cinnabar in the other. He watched his mother start the fire and throw in the floo powder, and step through.

He turned and went up to his room. He needed a nap. He didn’t have the patience to deal with the tedium and annoyance of his life right now. Stupid Ministry, stupid Gringotts, thinking they could tamper with the Malfoy fortune, force their compliance. His mother would sort them out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you're wondering why an Indian manticore speaks English, the answer is simple: Magic.
> 
> pls review


	6. Harry: In The Wake

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hermione comes back to London.

Harry did make a completely honest effort to read through the monstrous paper stack he’d received from Advisor Ripley. But it was just so damn dense, and long, and much of it was written in tiny, barely-legible script. He made it through the first five or so pages, and then began flipping rapidly through the rest of it with increasing horror. There was just no way he would be able to do this. Would he really have to hire some legal help? How was he even supposed to go about doing that? He didn’t want to deal with this. He wasn’t even sure he wanted to inherit all this blood-money. Maybe he could just give it back? But most of the Houses involved were dead or finished.

He knew he had no idea of the scope of this, or how to tackle it. He had spotted a completely bewildering section under the _Wizangamot Representative Rights_ under the Yaxley house papers, an alarming number of rare magical creatures and plants stocked in the Selwyn menagerie and gardens, and a frankly staggering sum of land titles and rental incomes overall.

Harry took his glasses off and scrubbed his face with both hands. This was a nightmare. Involving a herd of actual Night-Mares belonging to the Rowle family. (The footnote about the mares had described them as “meeting viciousness standards for the breed”.)

“Figured out how rich you are yet?” came Ron’s voice.

Harry looked up. His friend stood blurrily in the doorway.

“I have no bloody clue,” he said, and put his glasses back on, “All I know is that I’ve got at least three tall ghost ships and a cursed silver mine in Spain.”

Ron laughed.

“It's not funny! What am I supposed to do with all of this?”

Ron shrugged and sipped from the cup of tea in his hand. “Dunno mate. I’ve never had this problem, myself.”

Harry pushed the stack of papers away from him. “I’m going to work on the third floor bathrooms today. _That’s_ something that makes sense.”

“Right. Can I give Bleeps a biscuit?” Ron asked.

“What? Bleeps is a computer, it can’t have biscuits.”

“He wants one, though. He said to put it in the CD slot, can you show me where that is?”

Harry sighed. Why was his life so hard?

**

A week after Harry’s Horrible Inheritance Incident, Hermione brought her parents back to London, Grimmauld Place. She’d reversed most of the Obliviation, but would be taking them to St. Mungo’s to make sure she hadn’t missed anything. In the meantime, they were a little disoriented but otherwise all right.

Hermione showed up on the doorstep holding both her parents’ hands. She looked severely sleep-deprived but was grinning widely.

“Ron! Harry!” she exclaimed, and hugged them both, and kissed Ron square on the lips.

Harry coughed, and looked at Hermione’s parents. “Er… hello, Mister and Missus Granger.”

Mrs. Granger looked uncertain. “Hello. Um, Harry, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, that’s me,” said Harry, and she looked relieved, “Please come in, I’ll get you some tea.”

“I must say, I’m rather alarmed at what my daughter seems to be capable ofs” said Mr. Granger, as Harry brought the tea.

Hermione was sitting between her parents, apparently unwilling to move out of arm’s reach of them. She fidgeted. “I’m… I’m so sorry, I…”

“Yes, yes, dear, you were saving the world,” her mother said faintly.

Harry watched his friends joke with each other, watched Hermione lean against her mother and father, watched Ron laugh and nervously pat at his hair, clearly wanting to make a good impression with Hermione’s parents. Something twinged in his chest, that felt good and bad at the same time. Here they were, living their lives after the end of everything. It felt strange to living in the time after Voldemort. There had never really been a greater or more daunting goal in his life, a shadow that touched everything.

He was very glad that he’d spent the past month cleaning up Grimmauld Place. Hermione and her parents needed a place to stay. The guest room in the second floor was fully redecorated in warm colors and a somewhat amateur painting of a sunset landscape he’d found in the attic, initialed R.A.B.

Harry insisted that they stay, and they did. That evening he made dinner with soup, with lamb, with dessert, and it didn’t turn out half bad.

He was pulling the lamb out of the stone oven when Hermione appeared in the doorway. Harry could hear Ron and the Grangers laughing from the sitting room.

She watched him cut into the lamb. “I didn’t realize you cooked,” she said.

Harry shrugged. “Well, you know. The Dursleys made me, back in the day.”

An expression flashed across her face, but Harry missed it. “I was half-expecting Kreacher to be here.”

“Uh, well. I don’t really know what to do about him.” It had crossed Harry’s mind to call Kreacher back to Grimmauld Place, at least for the cooking (Kreacher was definitely better at it than Harry was, being a magic elf and all). But some of Hermione’s SPEW fervor must have rubbed off on him a little bit. It made him uncomfortable, the idea of owning a house-elf. Ron vehemently disagreed of course, particularly when Harry occasionally burnt dinner.

“You should ask him if he’d like to come home,” said Hermione.

“Yeah, I guess.” Harry arranged the lamb chops with little sprigs of rosemary.

“Thank you, Harry, for letting us stay.”

Harry looked up at her. “Of course, Hermione. You three stay as long as you want. Seriously. It’s ‘cuz of me you don’t have, you know, a house right now.”

She grimaced. “Oh, don’t go blaming yourself.”

“There’s talk of Hogwarts reopening this year, for us to do the year over,” Harry said, instead of responding to her statement, “If the three of us go back, it’d be good for somebody to be holding down the fort here.”

She stared at him. “ _If_ we go back? Don’t be stupid, of course we’ll go back to Hogwarts if they open this year. And like I said, ask Kreacher if he wants to return to Grimmauld Place. I’m don't think my parents can stay here long-term anyway. They can’t see the place from the street. I had to lead them in by the hand.”

“Oh. Right.”

“But maybe we can find a workaround,” she said thoughtfully, and she looked so much like the old Hermione, ready to rush off to the library, that Harry couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll have to do some research. Can I help at all with dinner?”

“No, I’m just finishing up. Why don’t you get everyone to go to the dining room?”

That night, Harry lay awake in the mostly-refurbished room that had once been Buckbeak’s. It had been a real piece of work, and there were still gouges in the floor that weren’t covered up by the new carpet. There was the slightest crack between the curtains were the moonlight came in. He thought about Hedwig for the first time in a while. How if she were still alive, he’d have left one side of the curtain pulled back, and the window open.

It took him a horribly long time to fall asleep. Some nights it was like that. In the daytime he packed as much busywork in as possible to keep his mind off things. But he couldn’t do that at night, when there was nothing to occupy his mind from whirling in circles and memories. Sometimes he gave up and went to the bathroom to take a dose of Dreamless Sleep. But tonight he waited it out, tracing the patterns on the quilt until he drifted off.

**

The next day, Hermione took her parents to St. Mungo’s, where they were admitted. The Healers assured her that her parents should be alright in a few days, and that she should really look seriously into a career in Healing with a specialty in Memory Restoration.

“I bet you’ll be getting that wherever you go,” Ron told her, “you’re so bloody smart, it’s infuriating.”

In the evening, Hermione looked over Harry’s Giant Inheritance Paper Tower.

“Gosh, Harry,” she kept whispering, as she scanned through page after page. “You’re really going to have to hire some legal help with this. I don’t know the next thing about wizarding inheritance laws, and we probably don’t have the time to waste on me getting up to speed on it.”

“Sorry?” Harry asked. Hermione always had an answer for everything. If she somehow didn’t, she would consult a book. It somehow hadn’t occurred to him that she would immediately tell him to hire a solicitor.

“There’s some _really important stuff_ in here, and I doubt I’m even scratching the surface.” Her eyes were blazing in a way that was both familiar and worrisome. “You haven’t just inherited a disgusting amount of money, Harry. You’ve inherited a couple dozen titles, and political points besides. I think you’ve got at least…” she checked through several of the smaller stacks she’d sorted the Tower into, “Twenty votes in the Wizangamot.”

“What, seriously?” Harry asked.

“The Wizangamot’s only got between forty and a hundred-sixty votes depending on the case, and it seems like the ones you’ve inherited are only good for particular kinds of cases – like I said, I don’t understand all the legal ramifications – but this is really significant! You’ve got a lot of power now, Harry! And not just from being famous. These votes could really go a long way to changing things for the better! Just think what we can do for SPEW!”

“Oh no,” said Harry weakly.

**

The rest of the summer passed in a haze of nonstop grown-up sort of things like consulting with multiple solicitors and Advisor Ripley, continuing redecorations at Grimmauld Place, taking care of his godson, dealing with angry house heirs who had figured out that Harry was the reason for their frozen bank accounts, getting fitted for proper robes for appearing in court, and appearing several times in court to testify in the Death Eater trials.

The worst one was when he was called in to testify on the Malfoys. Because, yes, they had done some fucked-up shit. But Narcissa Malfoy had saved his life. The Malfoys’ barrister contacted him to ask him to testify in their defense. He agreed, but ignored their not-too-subtle suggestions to stretch the truth.

He kept his testimony short, made no eye contact with the Malfoys, and left as soon as he was able.

By mid-August, the assets of most of the extinct Houses were on their slow, bureaucratic grind to being transferred fully into Harry’s name. The Houses whose last heirs were due for Azkaban would take more time.

He’d met vicious opposition from the twin heirs of Selwyn. Goyle Senior (who had somehow wriggled free of Azkaban entirely) and the lesser house of Goyle were digging in their heels, as well as two lesser branches related to the Carrows.

And the Malfoys.

Oh boy, the Mafloys. They’d emerged from the trials largely unscathed. Harry fervently hoped he wouldn’t go broke from fighting them before the Lestrange vault cleared into his name.

“I kind of feel bad though, taking all their stuff,” said Harry, over dinner. Kreacher had indeed professed a desire to come home, and had largely taken over the cooking again. It was undeniably superior to Harry’s cooking.

“What? Why?” Ron demanded, “It’s _less_ than they deserve, the shits. I still can’t believe Lucius Malfoy only got five years in Azkaban.”

“It just doesn’t feel right,” Harry muttered, “Maybe I should give it back? Their lands, at least. I don’t like _any_ of this, really. I still think I should donate the inheritance to the families that suffered losses from the war, you know? After I subtract the legal bills.”

“You’ve got to keep _some_ of it,” said Ron, “Like, one ghost ship at _least_. I’ve always wanted to go on a ghost cruise.”

“Well, it’s going to take years to play out, in any case,” said Hermione firmly, as if that settled the matter. She helped herself to another helping of shepherd’s pie.

Harry shrugged. “Hm. That’s true. What do you guys think about the reading room upstairs? I kind of like the effect of the old wallpaper, even if it’s ripped in some places…”

“Yeah, you oughtta just slap a couple paintings or bookcases over the ripped bits,” Ron said, “If you switch out the curtains for something, yunno lighter, and more flowy maybe? It’ll set the whole room off real nice.”

Hermine smiled bemusedly at Ron, but made no comment.

**

They had not received letters from Hogwarts all summer, so the three of them assumed that there would be no school this year. Hermione already had a temp job lined up at the Ministry in the Centaur Liaison Office of the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures.

But then, on the fifteenth of August, they came. Three barn owls bearing letters emblazoned with the Hogwarts crest.


	7. Draco: Scars To Your Bitterful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco wears a hat and goes shopping.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess what! I'm applying to work as crew on a ship. HERE'S TO ME GETTING THE GIG!!! @magicalForces please? I have not been so enthusiastic about doing a thing in ages........ tho if I get it I won't be able to update for a while starting next month. I'm sure y'all understand tho. We're talkin an actual fuckgign ship.

Draco was asleep in the west sunroom. He was on the chaise lounge, a cushion under his head, and curled up against the warm flank of the manticore. A knock at the door woke him.

He sat up, blearily, hair sticking up at a weird angle. The manticore opened its giant-ass fang-filled monster mouth and licked the side of his head.

“Oh, fuck off,” he said, and pushed its jaw away.

His mother was standing by the door, wearing an odd expression on her face. “Draco darling… Don’t you think it’s a bit odd how much time you’ve been spending with that beast lately?”

He shrugged. It wasn’t his fault the west sunroom had become the warmest and most comfortable room in the entire manor.

“Well, this just arrived,” she said, and held up a crème-colored envelope. Draco’s eyes zeroed in on the Hogwarts seal.

She let the envelope go, and it drifted through the air, whirled dangerously over the fire in the middle of the room, and into Draco’s outstretched hand.

Draco tore it open. “I was so sure they’d be postponing to next year at least. What are they thinking, sending letters out in mid-August?”

“You’ll want to get your supplies,” said Narcissa, “You should go to Diagon today and waste no time.”

He looked down at the letter in his hand. He said, blankly, “I don’t need supplies. I’ll just use what I had from last year. Maybe top up on potion ingredients.”

He _would_ be going to Hogwarts, he knew. His mother would stand for nothing else. He’d given it some thought himself, and had come to the conclusion that he wouldn’t be backing down, wouldn’t let all the dark business of the past few years stop him from showing his face. He’d prove that the Malfoys always landed on their feet.

He glanced at the manticore. It yawned, first its human face, then its cavernous monster-mouth. It was horrible to behold. And a little funny.

So far, he’d mostly completed Samira’s challenge #2: clear his name in court. But the Occamie/Occamy egg had yet to hatch. And he was no closer to finding out the best way to kill the manticore. The sources he’d consulted agreed that magic was practically useless, but disagreed on nearly all other counts. He wasn’t quite sure that _anyone_ had ever killed a manticore before. Perhaps Samira truly had set him an impossible challenge. But why? If she wanted him to get out of her palace, she’d only have had to ask. Or set the manticore on them.

He had a hundred problems, and the manticore was foremost amongst them.

Oh, and there was the small matter of Harry ‘Everything Lands In My Lap’ Potter having a stranglehold over nearly all his family’s rightful property. It was lucky enough that the manor’s wards hadn’t kicked them out, though the wards did seem to be in a state of confusion. Sometimes it took some loud curse words at the front door to be let in.

“I still think you should go to Diagon Alley,” his mother said gently, “It would be a good change of pace for you. I really am concerned about that you’re not... feeling well.”

He shrugged.

“Draco,” she said, and suddenly her voice had an edge, “Accompany me to Diagon today. I’d like to be fitted for some new robes.”

“ _Ooooorrrrr_ ,” said the manticore suddenly, rolling over on its back and off the lounge (it fell to the floor with a heavy _thump_ ), “Give me a belly rub!”

“For Merlin’s sake, where is your pride? You’re supposed to be a monstrous beast.” Draco told it. But he reached over and complied.

His mother stared down at the two of them. “Are we sure that’s really a manticore?” she asked, thoughtfully.

Draco stopped scratching the manticore’s belly for a second. The beast pawed him in the face. He pushed the paw away. “Huh.”

“The idea bears investigating, I think,” his mother said, “The creature is far too domestic. Perhaps the Singhs transfigured a dog.”

The manticore growled, rolled over, and stood up. “I’m _not_ some dumb dog!” It lashed its tail, stalked haughtily over to an antique coffee table, and kicked it over.

“Hey! No knocking things over!” Draco snapped. The manticore sat on its haunches, and glared at him.

“Or perhaps a cat,” mused his mother. The manticore hissed. The spines on its tail quivered threateningly. She smirked. “My apologies, manticore. Draco, I expect you to be ready in ten minutes.”

She turned and left.

Draco and the manticore looked at each other.

“Your mom offended the shit out of me,” said the manticore, “A dog… honestly. I should rip her in half.”

“I forbid you from ripping anyone in half.”

“I said I _should_ , not that I _could_.”

**

Diagon Alley was remarkably busy. There were a surprising number of frantic-looking Hogwarts students hurrying around the shops, and a line forming inside Madam Malkin’s. It would take some sort of miracle for that witch to churn out all the school robes in the next fifteen days. There were other clothes stores of course, but the vast majority of students tended to get fitted there.

Said Draco, “I’m going to Eeylops Owl Emporium. Rhiannon’s shredded her favorite stuffed mouse again. How long will you be at Twilfitt and Tattings?”

“Oh, not too long. But I’d like to browse the new timepiece store I’ve been hearing about, they’re supposed to have some new contraption inspired by declassified research in the Department of Mysteries.”

Draco nodded. “I’ll come find you.”

Eeylops wasn’t too busy. Draco went straight for the toy section. He picked out a mouse toy – it was dressed in miniature wizard’s robes – and gave it an experimental squeeze. The thing squeaked loudly and wriggled in his hand, catching the attention of several caged owls in the vicinity. He picked up a several more squeaky mice as backup.

He headed for the counter. The bell on the door chimed as another group came in. The man behind the counter began wrapping the toy mice in a paper bag and rang him up.

“You want another snowy then, Harry?”

Draco froze, and resisted the urge to turn around. He was fervently glad to have chosen to wear a hat today, even though it didn’t seem like it would rain after all.

“No, it’d remind me too much of Hedwig, you know…”

He paid for the mice and sneaked a peak from under his hat’s brim. The Terrible Trio were looking at a long-eared owl perched on the back of a chair. It hooted at them.

“It think that one likes you,” said Granger, from somewhere within her ocean of curly hair.

“Hm,” said Harry ‘King of Literally Everything,’ Potter.

Weasley glanced across the shop. Draco ducked and bolted before he would have the deal with the three of them.

Once he’d put a bit of distance between himself and Eeylops, Draco took his hat off and crushed it into his pocket alongside the squeaking mice toys, furious at himself for having run away like a whipped crup. He should’ve said something scathing. Something like, _“How’s it working out for you Potter, suing aggrieved families for a living?”_ No, that would insinuate that Draco and his family were aggrieved. Maybe something like, _“Hey, Potter, sold any autographs lately? I’d wager you could double your prices these days.”_ No, what was he thinking, he’d played out the autograph angle in the second year. How about, _“Oh, replacing your dead bird are you? Do you even have anyone to send mail to? I thought they’d all died.”_ Nailed it. Damn. He really should’ve said that. He was off his game.

He stopped in front of Quality Quidditch Supplies. There were some Nimbuses in the storefront, as well as the new Comet. After a moment of deliberation, he went into the store. It was quite busy with kids fawning over the merchandise, begging their parents for upgrades. He felt quite superior to them all.

Draco was trying on a pair of grippy gloves when someone called his name.

“Oi! Is that you, Malfoy?”

Were they following him or something? He carefully arranged his face in his most haughty sneer, and resisted the urge to brush back his hair. He turned. At least he was mentally prepared for them.

Harry ‘Hullo Draco, I’m Here To Deliberately Ruin Your Life,’ Potter was looking deeply uncomfortable. His arms were full with an owl cage and a box containing a snitch. Granger, too, looked like she’d rather be elsewhere. 

But Weasley was grinning. “I’m surprised to see you here. Thought you’d be holed up somewhere, trying to come to terms with the fact that you’re poor as the rest of us now.”

Draco glanced dismissively at him, then at Harry’s owl cage, then at Harry’s face. “Oh, are you replacing your dead bird, Potter? I thought everyone who sent you mail had died, what’s the point?”

Potter winced, just slightly, in that way that brought such vicious satisfaction to Draco’s heart. Vicious satisfaction, and that bitter feeling, that guilty feeling, that jealous feeling. There had always been that part of Draco that looked at Potter’s pet Mudblood and Blood-traitor and growled that it should be _him_ , _he_ should be the Chosen One’s best friend, he was obviously better than the pair of them put together. It’d been for the most part overwritten by animosity but… This past year, something had damaged the enmity. He found it didn’t feel quite as good anymore.

“Oh, honestly!” said Hermione, “Are we all just going to go straight back to this childish nonsense? He saved your life, you know! I should think you’d be at least a little bit grateful.”

“Grateful for what? Not finishing me off himself so that he’d get his hands on my gold more easily? No thanks.”

“Guys, let’s just go,” said Harry ‘Literally A Better Person (Without Trying) Than You Will Ever Be, Draco’ Potter.

“No, don’t let me interrupt your little shopping trip,” Draco sneered, and went to the counter to pay for the gloves.

**

That evening, Draco was in the sunroom again, the evening rain pattering down the glass ceiling and walls. The manticore was sitting dangerously close to the fire, its eyes half-lidded and reflecting the flame.

“Hey,” said Draco, “How about I give you a name? I was thinking maybe a mythological figure, or Carmine, you know, for your color…”

The manticore looked up at him, blinking slowly. “No.”

“Uh, what?” He hadn’t expected this to offend the beast.

“Let me pick my name.”

“Oh. Sure.”

The manticore grinned. “In riddle form.”

Draco groaned. “For the love of fuck.”

“First is the center, the red-bleeding heart. Last is the question that tears us apart. First is the place where the seedling starts. Last, the twenty-fifth symbol of the old written art.”

“I can’t stand you,” said Draco.

“So sit.”

“I'm already sitting. So does this name have four parts? First, last, first, last?”

“No, idiot. Two parts. First, last.”

Draco ran a hand back over his hair and lay back down on the chaise lounge. “Fine, alright. First, the center… and First, the start. This is the worst riddle.”

The manticore pouted. “No, it isn’t. It rhymes and everything.”

“Alright, synonyms for center, or start? Beginning? Middle. Root? Is it root?”

“No.”

“Ugh. Heart? No, that can’t be it. Core?”

The manticore grinned.

“Core…” Draco whispered, “Okay. Last is the question that tears us apart. And last is the twenty-fifth symbol of the written art. What the fuck, manticore.”

“This part’s easy, Draco.”

“The letter Y,” Draco realized, “Put them together and you get… Corey?”

Corey the manticore grinned.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I’m hardly ever serious,” Corey agreed, and huddled down closer to the fire, paws close together and chin resting upon them. Its eyes were half-lidded and flickering again.

Draco stared up at the rain. He had almost drifted off when Corey spoke again.

“Thanks, Draco.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Send comments y'all... I love all comments unconditionally even ones that say "piss off & chew a carrot" or "i'm bored." Love that shit.


	8. Harry: Homecoming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The House of Sconces and Windows

September first. A trip on the Hogwarts Express, one last ride that Harry had not expected to take. The three of them arrived on the platform early, got a seat together in a compartment near the front of the train. Harry set his new owl on the seat next to him. Gwydion was sleeping with his head under one wing and didn’t even twitch.

It felt surreal, to be here again.

As the train filled up, Neville joined them, and later so did Susan Bones. An awful lot of people were peering into their compartment until they closed the curtains on the door.

Susan had a bag of pumpkin chips, which she shared with the rest of them in the train.

“How was your summer?” she asked, “Mine was just full of parties and funerals. You were there, right Neville, at the Midsummer Gala? But I didn’t see you three there. It was the biggest party of the year, why didn’t you come? The Greengrass sisters held it at their lake house, it was lovely. The after-party got really out of hand.” She smiled knowingly at Neville, who blushed and ducked his head.

“The Greengrasses?” Ron asked, “I thought that was a Slytherin family.”

Susan popped another pumpkin chip into her mouth and crunched on it. “Their bigoted parents didn’t know about it. Slytherin or not, they know how to throw a hell of a gala.”

“I’ve gotten so much mail this summer, I probably just missed the invite,” said Harry.

Just as the Hogwarts Express started to pull away from the station, someone came to the door and opened it.

It was Malfoy.

He looked somewhat harried, with the hair on one side of his head out of place, and a thin scrape on his cheek that was still red, though it had scabbed over.

He looked startled for a moment, but quickly rearranged his face into a more familiar sneer. “Just my luck.”

Harry frowned. “What happened to you?”

“None of your business,” Malfoy said, and turned to go.

“You weren’t at the Greengrass Midsummer Gala, Malfoy,” Susan said, and crunched another pumpkin chip, “India, right? What’s it like over there? I’ve never been.”

Malfoy had a hand on the door. Harry saw his knuckles standing out white under his skin.

Ron shot Susan a look. “Why are you talking to him? Go on, Malfoy, beat it.”

Malfoy turned back to face them, the fresh line of red on his cheek standing out, facial expression blank. He seemed to be weighing something in his mind. And then, abruptly, he stepped into the compartment, settled his floating trunk into the overhead with a flick of his wand, and threw himself into the seat next to Susan Bones. She stiffened visibly. She slowly crunched another pumpkin chip.

“The fuck do you think you’re doing Malfoy?” Ron demanded, “Get out of here!”

Malfoy leaned back and put a foot up on the seat across from him, right next to Harry. He’d also carried a small basket into the compartment, which he rested on his lap.

“India was quite nice, Bones. You should make the time after we get our NEWTs. I met a manticore there.”

“Bullshit,” said Bones.

Ron was staring around the compartment. “We aren’t just going to let him sit here?” 

Hermione was oddly silent, but her hands were balled up on her thighs. Harry remembered, vividly, how she had screamed in the great vaulted marble of the Malfoy’s entrance hall. All of them in this compartment had cuts running deep, too deep to fade.

“I’m afraid it’s no bullshit, Bones,” drawled Malfoy, “The beast tried to eat me. But instead it ended up following me home to the manor. The creature is bloody cursed. It’s taken over our sunroom. Do any of you know how to kill a manticore, by the way? Granger, you’ve worked through half the school library, surely you’ve come across something on manticores.”

A deathly silence fell over the compartment as the train accelerated through the countryside.

Finally, Harry broke it. “Why are you talking to us, Malfoy? There’s no reason for you to be here.”

“Aw, I’m touched,” said Malfoy, and absently smoothed his ruffled hair, “If _you_ can defeat the Dark Lord and _I_ can survive a manticore attack, surely anything can happen.”

“The fuck does that mean?” Ron asked.

“Leopold the Wild is said to have slayed a manticore in 1658 by stabbing it through the heart with the bow of a cello,” murmured Hermione, and a silence fell upon the compartment again. For a while, the only sound was that of the train, and of Susan crunching on her pumpkin chips.

“I’m…” Malfoy said finally, and then appeared to struggle with himself. He then took his foot off the seat, stood, and flicked his wand. His trunk floated off the rack, and he left the compartment.

“That was fuckin’ weird,” said Ron, after they’d recovered a bit.

Neville shrugged. “He’s trying to become normal, I think. After everything.”

“ _Normal?”_ Ron scoffed, “after all the shit he and his family’s done?”

Neville shrugged again. “They ran away from the last battle. I think the thing is, they supported You-Know-Who’s ideologies initially, but then it started heating up too much for them.”

Ron snorted. “Oh, the horror, they had to deal with the _consequences_ of their shitty actions. It’s their fault for being assholes and prejudiced against muggleborns. Malfoy should be in Azkaban right now, if you ask me. They can’t just come back from the Dark stuff they’ve done.”

“That’s true,” whispered Hermione, “but…”

She didn’t finish. Harry didn’t know what she was thinking. But he probably knew better than anyone the kind of duress the Malfoys had been under to comply with Voldemort. Sure, Malfoy was probably still the same prejudiced prick he’d ever been. But Harry thought there was at least the slightest possibility that he had regrets, that he’d been pressured into this life, that if things had been different…

Was Ron right, was it impossible to come back from the Dark?

No, he didn’t think so. Harry remembered asking _Voldemort_ of all people, to try for remorse. And he’d meant it. Even if he hadn't really thought Voldemort would do it.

“This stuff is really kind of a downer,” said Susan Bones, “Let’s talk about something else. D’you suppose they got a new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher?”

The rest of the time on the train seemed to fly by. They arrived at Hogsmede station, and took the thestral-drawn carriages up to the castle.

Hogwarts was both exactly as Harry remembered it, but also different. The damage from the last battle was still apparent, with gaping wounds in the castle and grounds. They filed into the Great Hall and found the usual four house tables… and a fifth one, running down the center.

After glancing at one another in confusion, the students all settled down at their respective house tables. Soon thereafter, Professor Flitwick led in a line of absolutey tiny and nervous-looking first-year students into the Hall. Professor McGonagall rose from her seat at the center of the staff table. The chatting died down, and their new Headmistress spoke.

“Firstly, I’d like to give you all a very sincere welcome back. I do have one announcement before our feast begins.

“The staff and board of Hogwarts debated this summer whether we should do away with Sorting altogether.”

Muttering broke out among the seated students, but McGonagall raised a hand to quiet them.

“It was the feeling of some of us that the tradition drives wedges too deep between us, that recent events have proved the Sorting to help build pain and prejudice. But the Hogwarts Houses are an ancient tradition that have defined us for centuries, and helped shape all of you to become who you are now. And that is a valuable thing. So we reached a compromise.”

Headmistress McGonagall looked down severely at all of them.

“The Houses will remain, but the Sorting will not take place until the second year. All new first-year students will dorm together, dine together, and learn together, so that they may forge friendships they can carry with them when they are Sorted in their second year.” She gestured at the fifth table at the center of the Hall. “Anyone, of any year, who wishes to eat at the center table should feel free to do so. And… to give these new students the guidance and insight of experience, all seventh-year students will also be part of this fifth house. Repeat seventh-years, please seat yourself at the center table.”

Harry exchanged a look at Ron, who was looking thoroughly horrified. After some hesitation and muttering, the seventh-year students started peeling away from their House tables to sit down at the one in the center.

“Thank you. Meet with me after the feast, and I shall escort you to your new dorms. Everyone welcome your new first-year students!”

Uncertain applause rose up out of the tables, as the disappointed and uneasy-looking first-year students filed down to the center table to join their much taller brethren.

With a start of unease, Harry realized he was attracting quite a few of the tiny new students to seat around him. Some of them stared openly at him, while others whispered to each other and looked shyly away when he glanced at them. One absolutely miniscule and particularly bold girl stood up in her seat and shook his hand, grinning widely.

“I’m Abigail Abernathy!” she exclaimed, in a high, piping sort of voice, “It’s an honor to meet you, Mister Potter!”

Ron snorted loudly from Harry’s left, but this did not seem to upset Abigail in the least. She sat back down proudly and flipped her long braided hair over her shoulder, looking quite pleased with herself.

Said McGonagall, “Those of you seated at the center table will have the great honor of coming up with a House name, mascot, and colors this year. And now, finally, let’s all enjoy our meals!”

The tables filled with food, and the little first-years gasped with surprise. Harry felt a stab of warmth to see their delighted baby-faces. It really felt like a new start.

Harry glanced down the table, where Draco Malfoy was seated beside Goyle. Even if this did mean he would be sharing a dorm with the Slytherins, Harry was tentatively hopeful that this year would work out alright.

**

After the feast, McGonagall led the students of the center table on a winding path through the castle. They ended up in the west tower, and stopped in front of a flickering sconce shaped like a dragon, which shot flames from its mouth.

“ _Expecto Patronum,”_ McGonagall said. The dragon-sconce closed its mouth, extinguishing the flames, and a narrow, arched doorway appeared beneath it. The first-years whispered excitedly at the sight. McGonagall ducked down and stepped through, and the rest of them followed.

The common room was circular, and the walls were peppered with windows of various sizes, shapes, and colors, as well as an altogether preposterous number of sconces shaped like every imaginable creature, plant, and person. The flames from these sconces were in different colors, and gave the room a rather interesting lighting. There were two fireplaces, and a number of mismatched couches, chairs, and tables.

McGonagall explained the setup to the first-years, gave a severe look to the seventh-years, and then took her leave.

Harry climbed up to the boy’s dorm to find a whole lot of four-poster beds, with his things settled down at one near the end, next to Ron. He found he was too full and tired to do anything but change into his pajamas and pass out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> write me commentsss


	9. Draco: Wrong Side Of The Bed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A Care Of Magical Creatures class full of scary girls, and a boatload of annoying roommates.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sussurate: verb. (of leaves, wind, etc.) make a whispering or rustling sound.
> 
> I’m gonna use this werd & I want to save y’all the trouble of googling it, like I had to, when I first came across it, but maybe you are more educated than me and knew this word already, in which case, my apologies for casting aspersions upon yer vocabulary knowledge!
> 
> I love this word and I’ve always wanted the use it and the stars have finally aligned

Draco was woken by the sound of his dorm-mates chatting and making and overall unreasonable ruckus. He put a pillow over his head, but that didn’t help. He toyed with the idea of casting a silencing charm across his bed, but that seemed like too much effort, so instead he listened in on the conversation, half-conscious and grumpy. The idea of sleeping through the day wafted tantalizingly across his mind.

“Can you believe this setup though! It’s absolutely crowded in here. Finch-Fletchly, get your shit out of the walkway!”

“Good luck with that mate, I’ve been yelling at him for years.”

“So do we still get House points or is it detention every time I cuss?”

“Oi, fuck! What about Quidditch?”

“Whose bloody toad is in my cup?”

“Oh, thanks, you found Trevor!”

“Merlin, Potter, stop shaking your head like a dog, you’re getting water on my new robes.”

“I just got out of the baths, what do you want?”

“I want you to put your robes on already!”

Draco sat up abruptly at that. He stared groggily at the curtains pulled up round his four-poster bed. _Don’t fucking look,_ he chanted to himself, _Don’t you dare look you thirsty piece of shit, do you want to die of mortification when he catches you looking?_

 _Yes, let me die, worth it,_ said some small and stupid part of him. He told that part to shut up. He continued to stare sourly at the drapes. Fuck. He was rooming with Harry bloody Potter. This year was going to suck.

The basket at the foot of his bed emitted a hissing noise and rocked in place.

“Oh, stuff it,” Draco said to the basket.

**

He went down to breakfast with Gregory Goyle. Habit drew him towards the Slytherin table, but he stopped himself and eyed the center table.

“I suppose we ought to sit at the house unity nightmare table, huh?” he said.

Greg shrugged.

“Right,” Draco said grimly, and led the way to sit on the end of the center table, away from where a cluster of noisy first-years were already babbling excitedly, as well as most of the seventh years. He and Greg drew a few looks as they sat down, but nobody commented.

Millicent and Pansy showed up soon after, sitting across from them.

“Seems like Avery bailed, huh?” Pansy commented, as she helped herself to some toast.

“Well, he’s a limp dicked moron, what do you expect. It’s a relief, frankly, there’s already a million loud as hell imbeciles packed into my dorm as it is.”

Millicent snorted.

Pansy smirked a little. “Every summer I forget how ornery you are in the morning, and every fall I’m delighted to rediscover it.”

“Shut your mouth,” Draco grumbled, leaning his forehead into one palm and picking at his eggs, “I’ve got a headache.”

“No you haven’t,” she said cheerfully, “Oh, look, here comes McGonagall with the schedules.”

Draco took his timetable from McGonagall wordlessly. She gave him one of her patented Severe Looks. She said, crisply, “I expect you to behave respectfully towards Professor Hagrid, Mister Malfoy. It’s on his favor I’m allowing your occamy.”

Draco steeled himself and nodded. Pansy and Millicent were suddenly fixing him with intense stares.

“If I hear of any mouthing off, your creature will be sent straight home,” she said, “I hope you remember that.”

With one last Severe Look, she swept down the table to hand out the rest of the timetables.

Draco looked down at his sheet. He’d be joining the Care Of Magical Creatures class with the sixth-years first thing. Joy.

“What was that about an occamy?” Pansy inquired.

“I got an egg in India this summer,” he said, “I’ve got to tame the beast so that Samira Singh will marry me. She landed me with a manticore, too, I’m trying to decide if it’s worth the trouble. If I don't die of a mauling this year I’m surely going to die from trying to be polite to that half-breed oaf.”

Pansy looked as though she had bitten down on something sour. Oh yeah. She liked him. Things had always been… airily flirtatious between the two of them, but as much as she pretended it was no big deal for her, he got the distinct impression that her possessiveness might be an indication of more serious feelings. “You’re working on a marriage proposal?”

“Yeah,” he said, “Pain in the arse.”

“Show us the egg,” said Millicent, leaning across the table.

“No way. The thing hatched yesterday morning if you can believe it, I had a hell of a time wrestling it into a basket before the train took off without me.”

They finished breakfast, and Draco headed off alone to his Care Of Magical Creatures class, bookbag slung over one shoulder and occamy basket tucked under one arm.

**

He was the first one down at Hagrid’s cabin. Come to think of it, he might well be one of the only ones in this class. That was a terrifying thought. Nobody from his year had taken the class to the NEWT level, if he remembered correctly. The half-giant was out front, tending to a cage full of blue things that were whizzing about too quickly to track with the eye.

“Hello, Professor,” he said.

Professor Hagrid lumbered around to face him.

“Well,” grunted the half-giant, his dark eyes narrowed with dislike, “Malfoy. So yer joinin’ my sixth-year NEWT class, then?”

Draco nodded, and bit back a comment about the subject being a worthless waste of time to take as a NEWT, especially under the instruction of a worthless monster-loving giant with fewer brains than most of the creatures they studied.

Hagrid regarded him for a while. “Let’s see that egg, then.”

“It hatched yesterday,” Draco responded, “Scratched my face with its beak.”

Hagrid’s eyes crinkled with a smile. Of course. “Did it now? What’ve you fed it?”

“Uh… nothing,” said Draco, “I didn’t want to unleash its beak on my face again. I only have the one, and I’d like for it to remain intact.”

He hoisted up the basket, holding it out. Hagrid took it.

“It’s jus’ a baby, Malfoy, you really shoulda fed it. I’ve got some nice mice around ‘ere somewhere.” He rifled around in his enormous coat, and, to Draco’s horror, withdrew a live mouse from one of his infinite pockets.

“Now, let’s get a look at yeh,” Hagrid said to the basket, dangling the squeaking mouse from one meaty fist.

“What are _you_ doing here?” said a voice from behind Draco.

He turned, and was met with the fierce face of Ginny Weasley. He very nearly winced. The previous school year had been harrowing, and Ginny Weasley had been one of the reasons for it. The girl had spearheaded the war against Slytherin house, her and that Longbottom boy. Draco had been on the receiving end of far too many of her Bat-Bogey hexes.

He noticed that Luna Lovegood and Astoria Greengrass had walked down with Ginny. Astoria seemed to be standing awfully close to the other two. Surely they weren’t friends? But then Draco realized that they must be retaking this class together. Perhaps they were his only three other classmates. They very well may be friends, if they’d had to cope with Hagrid’s classes together for most of last year. Near-death experiences will forge friendships between nearly anyone.

“I’m in your class,” he said, with great distaste.

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “Got held back a year?”

“Oh, shut up,” he snapped, “I’ve got a pet occamy, so McGonagall forced me to take this class.”

“You know,” said Luna seriously, “The occamy is just the more easily-spotted cousin of the Ymacco, which feasts on the hopes and dreams of teenagers.”

“An occamy?” Astoria chirped, brightening, “Ooh! There aren’t many of those in Europe, where did you get it? Can I see?”

Draco turned, and saw that Hagrid had removed the occamy from its basket, and what was more, had it curled around one wrist. The creature was swallowing down the mouse, which was still kicking weakly.

The occamy was like a small, iridescently feathered snake with jewel-bright wings. 

“I got it in India,” Draco said, immensely irritated. Of _course_ Hagrid immediately got along with the creature.

Astoria cooed at it delightedly, and held out her hands.

“Now, yeh want to be careful, it’s a baby,” said Hagrid, “And it’ll bite if it feels threatened. Get yer gloves out. And we ought ter go inside, it’s a bit nippy out here for the little fella.”

The five of them squeezed into Hagrid’s hut. Hagrid carefully laid a pillow on his table, and then set the occamy upon it. The creature slithered around the pillow, and then reared up at them, fluttering its wings a bit.

“Now, don’ move suddenly, it won’ like that. The trick with occamies is ter be gentle an’ consistent, an’ to respect its boundaries,” Hagrid said softly, and pulled up a stool. The four students did likewise, and watched the creature on the table.

The occamy slid off its cushion, and wandered around the table, sniffing at each of their hands. It hissed at Draco a bit, and he snatched his hands away. It reared up, hissing furiously.

“Oh, fuck you too,” he said.

“Malfoy!” Hagrid hissed, “Be nice!”

“That’s literally impossible for me, thanks,” said Draco, eyeing the occamy warily. Ginny and Astoria giggled. Luna was staring into space a bit.

The occamy finally lay back down and slithered off towards the cushion. It curled up upon it and apparently fell asleep.

The four of them watched the creature sleep for a while. Draco found he was incredibly bored. “So are we just going to watch this thing sleep? Because if so, I’d like to go take a nap myself.”

“Don’t you have any _appreciation_ for this creature?” Astoria asked him in a hushed voice. “They’re quite rare, you know! And usually quite aggressive. What an opportunity, to tame one from birth!”

“Ugh,” said Draco.

“We ought ter name it,” said Hagrid, smiling down at the magic snake-bird-thing on his dining table, “Any ideas?”

“Welcome to your NEWT-level Care of Magical Creatures class, everyone,” Draco drawled. He lay his arms down upon the table, and his head upon his arms, “Everyone think of cute names for the bloodthirsty flying snake.”

Somebody kicked him under the table, hard. He glared at Ginny, and tried to kick her back, but missed and hit a table leg.

“How about Apophis? It’s the snake god of chaos and darkness from Egyptian myth,” Astoria suggested.

“It’s _my_ occamy, _I’m_ going to name it,” said Draco.

Luna looked at him, and said mildly, “You are so contrary, Draco. Does nothing make you happy?”

“No,” said Draco, “And don’t be so familiar with me, _Lovegood._ ”

“You know, speaking of snakes? I’ve always wanted to meet a naga,” said Astoria, “but then I found out if I did I would probably die. I still want to, though.”

“Well if you ever want to meet an untamable bloodthirsty creature, I’ve got a manticore at my manor,” said Draco boredly, “It’ll talk your ear off, though.”

“A manticore?” Hagrid asked, looking up from the occamy, “Blimey, that’s quite a beast. I’d be careful with that one.”

“No, honestly, Corey isn’t actually that bad,” said Draco, watching the feathered belly of his occamy rise and fall with little snake breaths, “I mean, sure, Corey would probably eat me as soon as it got the chance, but it can’t, since it’s got to listen to my orders. So it just harasses me with riddles and demands belly rubs.”

“A manticore named _Corey?_ Really?” Ginny was grinning.

“It picked the name itself, don’t blame me.”

“Could yeh bring Corey in to meet us?” Hagrid asked. The half-giant was looking altogether far too delighted for Draco’s taste. “I haven’t met a manticore before tha’ asked fer a belly rub.”

Draco beheld the table, the occamy sleeping upon it. His three classmates and his professor were all looking at him hopefully. He took a moment to imagine just what it would be like if Corey were in the mix. He stifled a groan.

**

After that he had a free period and lunch, followed by Potions. Hagrid had sent him on his way with strict instructions to keep the occamy warm and well-fed.

Potions class was full of students from last year, with the addition of the Golden Trio, who all sat together in their own little corner, of course. Draco took his usual seat between the two other Slytherins, Blaise and Daphne.

“You didn’t come to my Gala,” Daphne accused. She pushed her glasses up her nose and chopped up desiccated bat livers with razor-sharp precision.

“I was in India, being harangued by magical beasts and wedding propositions,” said Draco, likewise chopping bat livers, “And then Potter’s been going round trying to inherit all our gold. I’m sure your Gala was wonderful, Daphne, and had my summer been less shitty I’d surely have gone.”

Blaise snorted. “If you’d gone, your summer would’ve been better. It works both ways, idiot.”

“Shut up, moron.”

Blaise waggled his eyebrows. “Make me.”

“We aren’t going to make out in potions class, dumb-arse.”

“Ah, that reminds me,” said Blaise, “I can’t wait for the first seventh-year party. All these new dorm-mates to get drunk with. I’m spinning the bottle on Potter so hard. Bragging rights for days.”

Draco grunted noncommittally, and chopped the livers with a bit more ferocity than was strictly necessary. He glanced across the room, at where Professor Slughorn was fawning over his favorite potions star, Stupid Perfect Potter.

“Ugh,” said Daphne wearily, and started grinding up beetles eyes. “And I thought I’d miss having a normal year of school without nutters running the place. I forgot about _you_ arseholes.”

“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to offend,” said Blaise cheerfully, “I’d spin the bottle on you too, Daphne.”

“Thanks,” Daphne said drily.

**

That evening, Draco sat on his bed, dragonhide gloves pulled up to his elbows. The little occamy was slithering around on his bedspread.

With great concentration, Draco wordlessly conjured a fat cricket. The occamy zeroed in on it, and struck at it almost immediately. Draco watched it, satisfied, as the occamy began crunching on the cricket’s carapace.

“Apophis is actually an alright name, huh?” he said softly to the creature. It finished swallowing the cricket, and trained its beady little eyes upon Draco. “Don’t you even think about it.”

Apophis struck at him, catching Draco by the glove.

“Thanks for that, you useless shoelace,” Draco hissed, as Apophis clung to his thumb and between winding around his wrist, fluttering its wings, “Why can’t you be nice!”

“Who are you talking to?” a voice asked, and Harry Potter appeared, standing at the foot of Draco’s bed. “What is that?”

“My occamy,” Draco responded, as haughtily as possible.

“It doesn’t like you much,” Potter observed.

“Oh, well spotted, Potter. With observational skills like that, you’ve got a shining career ahead of you in categorizing knarls.”

“Has it got a name?” Potter asked.

Draco glared at him. When the glare appeared to have no affect, he said, “… Apophis.”

“Apophis,” Potter repeated, and trained his gaze back on the occamy. His eyes glinted slightly, and for a second Draco thought that his pupils had gone slitted and snakelike. A soft, susurrating sort of sound was coming out of his mouth.

Apophis let go of Draco’s thumb and reared up, looking curiously at Potter. It flicked its tongue out of its beak.

Parseltongue. Great. That’s just what he needed, for Potter to be able to set his occamy on him.

Potter looked up at Draco. “Apophis hasn’t forgiven you for stuffing her into a basket and leaving her there to starve.” He then paused. “Was I speaking Parseltongue?”

“Yes,” said Draco.

“Oh,” said Potter, “I thought that’d go away, after Voldemort killed me.”

“Why the hell would it go away?” Draco demanded.

Potter shrugged. “Be nicer to Apophis,” he suggested, “Or she’ll take your throat out in your sleep.”

With that, he wandered off. Draco glared distrustfully down at the occamy coiled around his wrist.

“I’m sorry alright? Don’t murder me. Or I’ll stop feeding you.”

Apophis hissed at him. Draco had no idea whether it was a hostile hiss or not. He then reflected on the fact that he’d just had his longest civil discussion with Potter in living memory. 

“Oi, Draco, Greg,” said Blaise, throwing himself theatrically across the foot of Draco’s bed (Apophis gave a startled squawk and squeezed Draco’s wrist with surprising strength), “Are you free next Saturday evening?”

“Why do you ask?” Draco said suspiciously.

Blaise grinned. “Don’t make any plans, and bring cupcakes. Greg, you bring candles, alright? We’re having a house unity party here in the boy’s dorm.”

“Okay,” said Greg softly.

Draco stared witheringly at them both. Blaise rolled out of Draco’s bed to go harass the Ravenclaws. From the sound of conversation, they would be bringing firewhiskey.

Draco looked over at Gregory. “Greg, you must promise me not to let me get pissed on firewhiskey next week, no matter what happens. I don’t trust myself not to kill anyone.”

Greg smiled faintly. “I trust you,” he said quietly, “You wouldn’t hurt anyone, you’re a weenie.”

“Slander,” Draco said shortly, and began the truly tiresome process of coaxing Apophis back into her basket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope that wasn’t too many minor characters lol.
> 
> plz comment,, and thanks for readin


	10. Harry: Wards & Water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bathroom incident

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure the Carrows were the worst DADA teachers so really anyone this year would've been better.

Day one Hogwarts had been incredibly normal. It felt almost strange. If it weren’t for the gaping holes in the castle walls and the cordoned-off sections waiting for remodeling, it might’ve felt like last year hadn’t happened at all. Hermione fretted about the other students who already knew the material, and Ron told her to, _shut up at least you’re smart, ‘mione, how’s an regular guy like me supposed to feel?_

Here comes day two. Harry dressed and stepped over Justin Finch-Fletchly’s enormous pile of miscellaneous books, objects, and clothing. He passed the Slytherin area of the dorm on the way to the door, and saw that a nervous-looking Goyle was watching Malfoy’s occamy slither around on the floor between their beds. Malfoy’s drapes were still closed, so Harry assumed he was asleep.

“Good morning, Apophis,” Harry said to the occamy at his feet, “Be careful not to be stepped on.”

Apophis shrugged her little wings and slithered under Draco’s bed.

Harry crouched down to peer at her. “Are you supposed to be out?”

 _“I do what I want!”_ she chirped, _“Go away! You’re scaring off the spiders with your big feet!”_

“Don’t go wandering off, you could get into trouble,” Harry cautioned, and stood back up.

He exchanged an awkward nod with Goyle, and headed down to the common room. Ron and Hermione were sharing an armchair, being overall fairly embarrassing. Little Abigail Abernathy and a few other first-years were crowded around a nearby table, arguing heatedly over a piece of parchment with various animals and scribbles drawn all over it.

“The sconce over the doorway is a dragon, we should be the dragon house!”

“Okay, that’s your _opinion_ , so write it down and everyone can vote on it.”

“Unicorn is way better.”

“We should be called Pigfarts!” exclaimed Abigail.

“That’s stupid.”

“No it’s isn’t! It’s really good!”

“I like Pigfarts,” Harry commented, and Abigail beamed at him. He walked hastily on before he could become embroiled in the debate.

He reached his friends’ armchair. “Hey Ron, Hermione. Breakfast?”

Hermione poked Ron in the nose one last time and said, “Sure.”

**

At breakfast, Hermione received a copy of the Daily Prophet.

“Uh oh,” she said immediately upon seeing the front page.

“What, another Dark Wizard on the rise?” Ron asked.

“Do not even joke about that Ron, you’ll jinx us,” said Harry.

Hermione shook her head. “No, but there’s been a breach in the Statute of Secrecy – someone filmed a manticore and it’s all over the muggle news. The Office of Misinformation is working overtime to play it off as an elaborate hoax.”

“Wait a second,” said Harry, “Didn’t Malfoy mention a manticore?”

“Yes, it says here that the creature escaped from their estate somehow, they’re not sure what happened. The manticore was registered and its cage was inspected by the ministry and everything, so they think someone must have sabotaged the protective spells keeping it contained.”

“I’ll bet you the Malfoys let it out on purpose,” said Ron darkly.

Hermione frowned. “But that doesn’t make any sense. They’ve been trying to win back their reputation all summer. Narcissa Malfoy’s very publicly been volunteering her time to help track down Dark artifacts and fundraise for reparations. A loose manticore reflects horribly on them.”

**

That afternoon, they headed off to their Defense class.

“I wonder what the new teacher is like?” Hermione wondered.

“Can’t be any worse than what we’ve had before, can it?” said Ron.

“Umbridge was the worst,” Harry said feelingly, “Which is saying something considering she had Voldemort for competition.”

“Yeah, it’s kind of fucked that our best teachers were a werewolf and a Death Eater,” said Ron.

They arrived at the classroom ahead of the most of other students as well as the professor. Neville was already there though, as well as Susan Bones. Harry noticed that Bones was wearing miniature skulls as earrings.

“Have you had a chance to look at the assigned books?” Neville asked, as they loitered around the classroom door.

Harry and Ron looked expectantly at Hermione. There was no doubt in their minds that she had managed to do all the reading in the fifteen days since the books had been assigned. Sure enough, she was nodding. “Yes, and I bought the recommended background reading too. They were quite fascinating! There was a chapter on hex reversal that made me think my Arithmancy class might be helpful this year, I’m really excited.”

“Oh, shit,” said Ron.

“As long as we don’t have to torture anybody for a grade, I’m calling it a win,” said Susan, as she checked her fingernails, “Last year was a nightmare.”

And then their teacher showed up. Harry hadn’t got a good look at the staff table when McGonagall introduced the professor, but saw now that they were very tall, with greying hair at chin-length and a rather nasty, mottled-purple scar across one cheek that looked like it had eaten away a considerable amount of flesh. Harry wasn’t sure, but he thought he saw a few teeth showing through a hole in the side of the teacher’s jaw.

“Hullo there, are you my seventh-year Defense students? Not many of you, eh? What’re you waiting for? Go on in, let’s get set up,” Professor Savage said, in a sort of hoarse voice.

“There’s more people coming, I think,” said Hermione.

“Sure, sure. Get moving, you lot.”

Ron leaned in towards Harry as their new teacher swept past them into the classroom. “Oi, can you tell if that’s a bloke or a lady or what?”

Harry shrugged, and followed Savage into the classroom.

“Oh, this won’t do,” said Savage, surveying the neat rows of desks, “Can I have a couple of you help me push the desks aside, and make a sort of a… fort in the middle?”

Hermione scampered in to help arrange the desks. Harry and Ron exchanged a look and followed suit. By the time they were done, and by the time the rest of the class had arrived, the center of the classroom was an open space, except for desks stacked in a sort of precarious cube in the center.

Professor Savage paced around the cube structure in the middle of the room. “Welcome to your seventh-year Defense Against The Dark Arts class. I’m Professor Savage, as I believe most of you already know, assuming you paid the slightest bit of attention at the feast when our Headmistress introduced me. It seems like you’ve had a roller-coaster of an education in this class so far, haven’t you?”

Most of the class looked a little confused.

“Right,” said Savage, “Roller-coasters are a muggle thing. They go up and down. Nevermind. I promised the Headmistress only one year of my time before I go back to being an Auror, since if I try to stay longer, the jinx on this position might well kill me. But I promise to do my best to prepare you for your NEWTs.”

Harry hesitated, and raised his hand.

“Yes, Mister Potter?” said Savage, “And I must say what a delight it is to have you in our class. Still, you might find the NEWTs a little more challenging than defeating a Dark Lord, so don’t go thinking I’ll let you slack off.”

There were a few giggles.

“No, it’s just, I’m pretty sure Voldemort was the one who cursed the Defense teaching position,” said Harry, “So you probably don’t have to worry about it.”

Savage appeared to brighten. “Ah! Perhaps we can use me as a case-study when we get to the curse-breaking unit. But let’s not worry about that for now. Now.”

Savage flicked their wand, and a pinkish shimmering haze began pouring out of the tip, enveloping the desk-cube in the middle of the room.

“It seems the lot of you are well-versed in thwarting dangerous creatures, and in the basics of offensive and defensive spells. Unfortunately, it seems you are lacking in the studies of warding, spell-deciphering, and curse-reversal, which are sure to show up in your NEWTs. As far as I can guess from your previous studies, most of you might well be able to scrape a passing mark in the subject, but I do mean scrape. We have a tough year ahead of us, and I expect you to give it your all.”

The shimmering haze settled down into the desk-cube, and faded.

“Now,” said Savage, “let’s get to it. I’m going to teach you some diagnostic spells, and go over the five basic ward types. The first person to tell me what type of ward I’ve put on my desk castle here doesn’t have to write me a thousand-word essay on the subject.”

By the end of the lesson, Harry felt as if his brain would explode with information. Hermione gushed about the lesson all the way back to the Great Hall. She seemed to love their new teacher, and not just because she had been the first one to classify the desk-ward (to nobody’s surprise).

“To have a warding specialist take a year off her Auror career to prepare us for our Defense NEWT is really something! I didn’t even realize how much we were missing…”

“Her Auror career?” Ron asked, “Are you sure Savage is a witch, and not a wizard?”

“Um,” said Hermione, “You know what, I don’t know. It seemed rude to ask.”

“What’d you suppose happened to his-or-her face?” Ron wondered aloud, “That’s a nasty scar-hole. D’you suppose Savage has to cover it up with something to eat or drink?”

“Gross,” Harry said, “I bet you’re right, stuff would fall out the side otherwise.”

Hermione scowled at them.

**

The first week flew by in a whirlwind of studies, and captaining the Quidditch team, and visiting Hagrid down at his hut, and sternly telling Apophis not to bite everybody in the boy’s dorm, and trying desperately to stay on top of an absolutely staggering amount of homework.

And then, at breakfast on Saturday, Blaise Zambini sauntered over. “Remember, you lot. We are having a _classy_ get-together tonight in the boy’s dorm. Bring a nice outfit and a fun attitude, alright?”

“Wait, why is it classy?” Harry asked.

Blaise sighed. “Oh, Potter. You may be handsome, but you’re incorrigibly oblivious. Obviously you’ve got to save your trashy self for later in the year. Just be there.”

“We never said we’d go,” said Ron.

“There will be _fire_ whiskey,” Blaise said imperiously.

“Hold on a minute,” said Hermione sharply, “We can’t have firewhiskey in the dorms.”

“Did I say firewhiskey? I meant pumpkin juice. Bye now, losers.” With that, Blaise strode off.

“Er, Harry,” said Ron, once Zambini was out of earshot, “Did he just call you handsome?”

Harry was wondering the same. He thought it might be fairly high praise, since Blaise was one of the best-looking people in the school. But on the other hand, Blaise was a Slytherin and may well have ulterior motives for the flattery. He shrugged.

“If this party has firewhiskey, I’m going to have to shut it down,” Hermione mused.

Ron groaned. “Give it a rest, ‘mione, we're all of age and it’s not like the firsties can come barging in by accident.”

Hermione narrowed her eyes, but made no further comment.

**

That evening, after completing what he thought was quite the responsible quantity of homework (admittedly under Hermione’s insistence), Harry went up to his dorm to get cleaned up a bit in the baths, since he’d taken a bit of a spill while practicing Quidditch earlier and still had mud clinging around his ear. Ron opted to stay and spend some more time with Hermione by the fire.

What Harry did not anticipate was how crowded the dorm baths would be with his roommates all taking stupidly long showers and such. Well, more like five or six of his roommates. The baths did tend to expand with more people, but they seemed to max out at a certain point. Everything was mostly in a really fancy marble, and Harry thought there might be limits to how many times the stone could replicate itself. Having all these extra roommates did turn out to be a pain.

“Hey! Potter!” greeted Blaise, who was sitting on the edge of a sink and having his fingernails painted a glittery silver by a girl from Ravenclaw. He waved one sparkle-tipped hand. “Look at what Mandy’s doing to my nails! It’s a muggle thing, apparently. The things they come up with, eh?”

Pansy Parkinson was there too, admiring her own glittering nails.

“Er,” said Harry, “Are girls supposed to be in the boy’s bathrooms?”

“It’s not about what you’re supposed to do,” said Mandy, in a stone-faced monotone, “It’s about what you can get away with.” She brushed Blaise’s nail delicately again.

“Right,” said Harry, “Are there any baths open?”

“Oh, the one on the end should be free,” said Blaise, “right, Mandy?”

Mandy nodded expressionlessly. “Definitely,” she said, sounding almost bored.

Harry sidestepped Michael Corner, who was drying-and-styling his hair with a wand, and went to the end of the bathroom. A wood-slatted door stood in the marble wall. When Harry pushed at the door, it stuck. Frowning, he pushed it again, and it popped open.

The bath, as it turned out, was actually occupied. Draco Malfoy was reclining in the tub, slices of cucumber over his eyes. Harry boggled at this sight, completely taken aback, and thus missed the opportunity to slam the door shut before Malfoy splashed into a seating position and dropped the cucumbers. The slices plopped into the water, floated for a second, and then sank.

“Er,” said Harry, “Sorry.”

“Get the _FUCK_ out!” Malfoy shouted at him, and a wave of boiling-hot water blasted Harry full in the face, knocking him back against the wall. He slipped and scrambled away from the door as laughter echoed around the bathroom, amplified tenfold. Harry looked up, and saw that Michael had misfired his drying spell and scorched off half the hair on the side of his head. He didn’t seem to mind, though, he was too busy choking with silent laughter. Pansy was leaning against the wall, shrieking with mirth.

“Oh _man_.” Blaise was practically crying, doubled over by the sinks. “Oh _hell_ , Potter, how fucking gullible _are_ you?”

“You’re smudging your nail polish, Blaise,” said Mandy stonily.

“I’m starting to think that rooming with you people is what’s going to do me in, after everything I’ve been through,” Harry said weakly, taking his glasses off and trying to shake away the droplets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Auror Savage was actually mentioned in book 6 but who caaaares. Hope that class didn't run too long.
> 
> To those of u in the US: hope y'all had a nice Turkey Day.  
> To those of u in the UK: i refuse to apologize for my sporadic use of the both 'arse' and 'ass'  
> To those of u in Bangladesh: you're the best and I love you
> 
> Everyone else: have a good week!


	11. Draco: Spin The Bottle

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party. Also, Corey causes trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i had an off day lol but at least i Wrote Stuff! have a good one.

Potter walked in on him in the bath. Potter. Walked in. On him. In the bath. Draco sank down in the water up to his nose, sulking. His cucumber slices were ruined by the hot water, too. Everything was horrible.

He waited until he heard Potter go into another private bath, before he got out of the water, dried off, and stepped out.

Blaise shot him a small grin. Draco returned it with a rude gesture, and stalked past him.

The party in the boy’s dorm started sometime around nine or ten. One of the Hufflepuffs brought a sonophone over from the girl’s dorm, which played pleasant classical tunes in the background. Half the attendants had even bothered to dress up properly. Overall, it was a grown-up and dignified sort of affair.

At least, for the first hour or so. But then Sue Li of Ravenclaw showed up with two crates of firewhiskey, a triumphant grin plastered across her face.

“Two shots,” Draco requested immediately, because he wanted to forget the incident in the baths. 

“Cough up your share,” Sue responded. Draco rolled his eyes and dug around in his pockets for a fistful of sickles to pay her with.

After that, Sue poured the shots for him obligingly; one shot each in little glass cups. The whiskey-flames flickered blue and pink and yellow. He downed them both in one go, coughing slightly as they burned down his throat.

And then Granger appeared from the ether to ruin the fun. She was wearing cheap-looking robes in dark blue. They looked nicer than her usual school uniform, but the higher-than-thou expression on her face ruined the effect. “We _can’t_ have firewhiskey,” she said, very snottily.

“This is pumpkin juice,” Draco informed her hoarsely, and turned back to Sue, “Two more, thanks, and enlarge these stupid tiny cups.”

He took his drinks and pushed past Granger to go join Greg, as his classmates began to mob around Sue.

“I thought you weren’t going to get drunk,” Greg said to him, as Draco handed him a glass.

“Oh please, we both know you were never going to stop me,” said Draco, and took another sip of the flickering fire. He didn't cough this time. Someone had seen fit to change the music on the sonophone. It was playing something more upbeat, with vocals he couldn’t really make out.

And then, next thing he knew, Draco was seated in a circle with the rest of his classmates, and Blaise was setting an empty firewhiskey bottle in the middle. People were chatting, and giggling, and shoving each other.

“Who said I wanted to play?” Draco muttered. He heard Pansy laugh from next to him. She was squeezed in on his personal space. His arm was over her shoulder. When had that happened? “Blaise has a fetish for this stupid game, I swear.”

“At least it’s not truth or dare,” Pansy whispered in his ear, “Remember what happened when–”

“Shut up!” Draco hissed, “He might hear you. I am not playing that game tonight, wearing my good robes.”

“Alright! I’m going first,” said Blaise, and spun the bottle in the middle. Draco watched it spin, and spin, and spin. He wondered who Blaise had picked. Zambini had an uncanny skill with the bottle, and Draco rather suspected wandless magic at play.

The bottle landed unmistakably in Potter’s direction. Draco felt his stomach clench as a tide of snickering rose from the circle.

Blaise started crawling across the circle towards Potter, who looked confused.

“I don’t get it,” he was saying, “What’s the point?”

“He’s seriously never played?” Pansy was whispering, “Do the Gryffindors not throw parties?”

And then Potter’s eyes widened as Blaise leaned quickly in and gave him a short kiss on the mouth. Something inside Draco raged and burned, so he drained the last of his firewhiskey and slammed the glass down on the floor with a little more force than he probably should.

“Your turn, Potter,” said Blaise, and handed him the bottle.

Potter looked wildly around the circle, “Seriously?”

“What are you, scared of a little kiss?” Blaise asked, retreating back to his seat in the circle.

Potter scowled, put the bottle down on the floor, and spun it. They all watched it turn, the little tongues of residual fire flickering at the mouth of the bottle. Pansy leaned in the other direction to whisper something to Millicent, and then the bottle stopped.

Pointing at Draco.

He froze, and looked up at Potter, who was staring back at him, horror written all over his face. Several people in the circle burst into cackling laughter.

“No way,” Potter was saying, as the people seated around him began shoving him towards Draco, _“No way!”_

Blaise was grinning, eyes gleaming, and he was watching Draco. “You don’t have to, Potter… if you want to be the certified wuss of the year.”

“Oh, fuck this,” Draco said, and attempted to stand up and escape. But when he was half-standing he swayed a bit, and the room drifted a little, so he sank back down to the floor. The last thing he needed was to fall on his face in front of everyone. “And fuck you, Potter. Are you doing it or not?”

Potter’s eyes flashed, and he was ripping his glasses off and coming over, and he kissed Draco, hard, tasting like firewhiskey, and for three whole seconds everything was completely blank and completely overwhelming.

And then Potter was pulling away and putting his glasses back on, and people were whistling and laughing, and the firewhiskey bottle was pushed into Draco’s hands. He had to catch his breath.

“I hate all of you,” Draco informed his classmates, and spun the bottle. He kissed Lavender Brown and she kissed some other fool and so on so forth and whatever the fuck.

In the end, Draco passed out on the floor somewhere, because Millicent and one of the Patils had taken over his bed.

**

After a night of absolutely miserable sleep, Draco woke up with a dry mouth, a headache, and regrets. Somebody had put a blanket over him in the night. He pulled the blanket up over his head and moaned quietly and piteously to himself.

“Shut up, Malfoy,” said a voice, “We all feel that way.”

He peeled the blanket back off his head and squinted up at the source. It was Weasley, who’d apparently had the good fortune of reclaiming his bed, and what was more, appeared to be taking careful sips of a hangover potion.

Draco stretched one arm out and made a grabbing motion with his hand.

“Oh, fuck no, asshole, this is mine,” said Weasley, like an absolute selfish savage, and handed the potion bottle over to Hermione, who was sitting up next to him.

Draco glared at him, but was in no fit shape to do much else.

“Just give him some, Ron,” said Potter’s voice, “I want my blanket back before he gets spew on it or something.”

With an alarmed spasm, Draco kicked Potter’s blanket off him and went to stand up. Mistake. He fell back down, clutching at his head, as Weasley laughed heartily. Several of their hung-over classmates hissed at him to shut up.

“I’m going to hex you as soon as I find my wand,” Draco whispered, and crawled back home to his bed to find his own bottle of potion. Apophis greeted him there with a sharp bite to the hand.

**

“I swear, Blaise,” threatened Draco at breakfast (a very late breakfast, after the hangover potion had time to work its magic), “if you were the one who turned Potter’s bottle on me…”

Blaise’s eyes widened innocently. “What? Don’t be silly, why would I do that?”

Millicent barked a laugh.

**

The majority of that Sunday, Draco spent doing homework. Okay, he also took one very long nap. Sure, the NEWT classes were hard and there was a lot of homework, but Draco had always been a fast reader, and an even faster bullshitter of essays. The real work was in understanding the basic theories and getting hands-on practice.

Something possessed him to take an evening stroll before dinner. Maybe because it was a shame to waste any of this tolerable weather before winter came.

He wandered passed the lake edge, brooding about how hard his life was and how annoying all his friends were and how he didn’t deserve any of this and how nice it would be to just go and take another nap maybe. Then he went down near Hagrid’s cabin. The pumpkins were starting to grow, little green things that would swell to enormous size by Hallowe’en.

“Hey, Draco!” said a voice. Draco looked up.

Standing between the trees at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, stood Corey. Its red coat almost seemed to glow against the glumness of the forest.

Draco froze. He stared, not really believing his eyes. And then he remembered that his cinnabar lion was back up in his dorm, and that he had no real protection against the manticore. He let his wand fall into his hand.

“What are you _doing_ here?” he hissed, “How did you get out? Where have you _been?”_

Corey was smiling widely. “Ah, well, I can’t be telling you all my secrets. C’mere, Draco, I want to show you something.”

“Fat chance,” Draco retorted, and casted an Accio for the lion-stone. Corey tilted its head at the sight of Draco’s twitching wand.

“I just want to show you something _cool,”_ said Corey.

The cinnabar lion whizzed past, then rebounded to Draco. He caught it in his hand.

Corey sighed. “You don’t trust me?”

“Why would I trust you?” Draco demanded, “And there’s no way I’m going over there.”

“Listen, buddy. Listen, pal. Just when else are you going to have the opportunity to get a tour of this forest under the protection of a magnificent manticore?”

“Never, hopefully,” Draco said, and turned to go. He’d have to write to his mother and let her know where Corey was.

And then a slimy mouth was closing around his arm and dragging him into the forest at an alarming speed.

“Let me go! _Let me go!”_ Draco shouted, clutching the lion in his fist. But Corey did not let him go, only dragging him through the dirt, over rocks and roots, deeper and deeper into the forest.

Finally, in a dark, silent clearing, Corey let him go.

Draco scrambled to his feet. “Why didn’t you obey me! Tell me!”

“Oh, Draco, if you can’t figure it out yourself I sure won’t be telling you now,” grinned Corey, “Now follow me, unless you’d like to be dragged again.”

“Guide me back to school grounds, _immediately,”_ Draco demanded.

Corey shivered, and then paced around Draco. It started pacing very, very slowly in the direction that they’d come. “Dray-co,” the manticore hissed, and glanced at him over its shoulder, and its eyes were glowing red, “Do you really think you can order me not to hurt you before my sting pierces your heart? Retract that order and _follow me._ I’m not your pet. I’m not a _toy_ that will do everything you ask. Respect me properly before it becomes your death.”

Draco hesitated, and opened his mouth. Corey’s stinging tail twitched.

“You don’t have to lead me back to Hogwarts yet,” he said, “There, are you happy?”

Corey bounded around, suddenly as energetic as a kitten. “Yes! Here, get on my back, it’ll be faster.”

Draco stared disbelievingly at Corey, and then climbed onto the manticore’s back. Corey began loping along at a leisurely pace.

“I’ve been _soooooo_ bored with you gone, Draco, you have no idea,” Corey was saying as they trotted past a spider the size of a cart horse, “But I got some freedom for the first time in ages! I’m loving it. Even if it is very _cold_ freedom.”

They came upon a bank, slid down it, and at the bottom…

Oh, wow.

There was a pond. Not very big, but not too small either. The water lapped gently along a sandy bank, and coruscated with little lights that were floating in it. Lovely, slender water-plants rose up out of it, and Draco saw the shadow of a small fish dart away from shore.

He slid off Corey’s back. “Why did you bring me here?”

Corey hummed. “Well. It’s a nice place, isn’t it?”

Dusk was falling to night in earnest, but the lights in the water didn’t fade. The water-plants were starting to bloom, opening up pinkish, faintly-glowing petals into a star-shaped flower that twisted this way and that, like pinwheels.

“I don’t understand you,” Draco said.

“You don’t have to,” Corey responded.

They were silent for a while, watching the beauty of the pond. And then Corey spoke again. “So, I’ve been meaning to discuss with you… Wait, did you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

Corey stood, and turned, scanning the forest, tail bobbing left and right. “Come out,” Corey hissed, “Or I’ll start shooting my spines at random.”

There was a silent pause. And then the air shimmered, and Harry Potter appeared.

“What are _you_ doing here?” Draco exclaimed.

“I could ask you the same,” said Potter, “What are you doing in the forest with a… what is that?”

“Manticore,” said the manticore, helpfully.

“Nosy as always, aren’t you?” Draco sneered, “Would it kill you to mind your own business for once?”

Potter stared evenly back at him, “Maybe. You haven’t answered my question though. What are you doing here?”

“Don’t ask me, it’s Corey’s who dragged me out here,” said Draco, gesturing at the manticore.

“… Corey?”

“Yes, that’s me,” said Corey, “But who’re you?”

“That’s Harry Potter, savior of the wizarding world, and greatest prat known to man,” Draco said.

Potter frowned. “Hey.”

“How did you even keep up with following us?” Draco demanded. And then Apophis popped her face up from inside Potter’s robes and chirped. Potter hissed softly at her and stroked her on the beak.

“You _traitor,”_ Draco snapped at his stupid occamy.

“Hmm…” said Corey, “Hmm…….. This is interesting. Savior of the wizarding world.” The manticore was now stalking around Potter in a circle. Potter eyed it warily, wand held aloft. “You’ve got experience with dangerous things then, haven’t you?”

“Yeah, I reckon I do,” said Potter, still pointing his wand at Corey.

“Well, I suppose that settles it then. I was going to wait, but… frankly when an opportunity like this comes around, you bite it by the head and don’t let go. Isn’t that right?” Corey was grinning, both its human grin and its monster-mouth grin. Its mane seemed to be swelling with static sparks, and there was a touch of a red glow in its eyes again. The manticore flexed its paws on the earth and swung its tail back and forth like a pendulum.

“What are you talking about?” Potter asked.

“You’ll find out,” said Corey cheerfully, and then reared up on its hind legs and shoved Potter with its great lion paws. He stumbled forward, and almost caught himself, but Corey shoved him again, and Potter fell headfirst into the pond.

He made barely a ripple in the water. The lights bobbed a little, but Potter had vanished. Draco peered in, aghast.

“Corey…” he asked, a little shakily, “What’ve you–”

And then Corey shoved him, and his stomach lurched, and he toppled into the water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comment pls?


	12. Harry: Thru The Looking Pond

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dermatologists HATE her!!! This 1 weird trick for surviving a puzzle dungeon. What they find in the pond may surprise you! Or it may not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today I Bested The Dealer In Car Shenanigans And I'm Smug (they wanted me to change the battery last week but today when i point out it's still under warranty they're like ohhhhhhh lets charge it and test it again WOW actually you don't need a new battery)
> 
> and now back 2 your regularly scheduled Good Shit

The water was icy cold, and was shooting up Harry’s nose and mouth. He sputtered and gasped, even as he felt himself being sucked deeper into the water, drowning as he went.

And then suddenly, it stopped.

Harry was lying on a cold floor. He pushed himself up, coughing up water. Apophis was hissing frantically as she wound around and around his neck.

_“I hated that! I hated that! I hated that!”_

“Sorry,” Harry said roughly, “That manticore… Do you see it?”

_“I hated that!!!”_

Harry sat up, and saw that he was on a stone floor. Above him, on the ceiling, was a pool of water that mirrored the one in the forest, complete with water-plants and little floating lights. Torches lit the walls, but the fire seemed to be flickering… downwards? A set of stairs connected the floor to the ceiling.

Every inch of the walls were carved with sculptures, geometric and twisting, boggling to look at. The flickering torchlight made it appear as though they were writhing slightly, and some of the shapes seemed to suggest faces, or animals. But the second he looked closer, it deteriorated back into intricate knots and patterns.

“Where _are_ we?” Harry whispered, as Apophis hissed complaints.

Seconds later, Draco Malfoy fell from the pool on the ceiling. Harry just barely had time to roll out of the way. Malfoy’s hair was plastered to his face, and he was making weak hacking sounds, water dribbling out of his mouth.

“Hey,” said Harry, shaking Malfoy by the shoulder. “ _Hey,_ are you alright?”

Malfoy made a choking sound again. He was clearly not alright. Harry rolled him over and hit him in the ribs, hard. Malfoy jerked upwards and coughed a big splash of water out onto the stone.

 _“Yes, hit him again!”_ said Apophis delightedly.

And then the manticore was falling from the ceiling, landing gracefully on the stone floor a few feet away, and shaking the water from its mane. Harry put his hand up against the spray.

“Where the _fuck_ have you brought us, Corey?” Malfoy snarled, wiping his hair out of his face.

“I’d like to know that too,” said Harry.

“Well, I don’t know _exactly_ ,” said Corey, “This forest is full of all kinds of fun magical secrets. But I’ve been here before, don’t worry. Follow me.”

And the manticore walked over to the staircase, and climbed it all the way to the ceiling. And then Corey stepped onto the ceiling, walked in a tight circle and looked down at them. Or was it up?

“Well?” the manticore said.

“Oh sure, because following you worked out so well for me last time,” said Malfoy scathingly.

The manticore lashed its tail. “Where’s your sense of adventure, Dray-co? Come on! I just need somebody with opposable thumbs to help me out.”

And the beast walked over to one wall and – Harry blinked – a doorway appeared in the carvings. Corey walked through and vanished from sight.

Harry looked at Draco, who was still breathing raggedly from going through the pond. Malfoy ran a hand through his hair again and muttered something under his breath.

Vaguely, Harry wondered if Draco remembered the kiss last night. He’d seemed pretty plastered, so maybe not.

“This is on you, Malfoy. It’s _your_ manticore,” Harry said.

“Technically it’s my cousin’s manticore. I’m just supposed to slay it,” Malfoy sniffed, and pulled out his wand to start a drying spell, “Don’t tell Corey though, I doubt it’ll go over well.”

Harry snorted. “Well, you’re doing a bang-up job so far.”

Malfoy scowled at him, stood, and followed the manticore up the stairs.

“Seriously?” Harry asked.

“I’d wager we can go through the pond back to the forest again,” said Malfoy, now standing upside-down on the ceiling.

“Oh no you can’t! I’ll eat you!” Corey’s voice echoed from through the doorway.

Harry went up the stairway. Something strange seemed to happen to gravity about halfway up. He started feeling lighter, and then like he was being pulled upwards instead of down, and had to lean back. By the time he reached the ceiling, it had become the floor. Harry looked up, feeling a weird sense of vertigo. The fire in the wall-torches were pointing the right way up, now.

 _“Stay away from the pond or I’ll bite you,”_ Apophis hissed in his ear.

Corey was back in the doorway. “Come on, hurry up!”

Harry glanced at Draco again. “You know, Malfoy, I kind of want to see where this goes.”

“You _would,_ wouldn’t you,” Malfoy responded disdainfully.

Harry shrugged, half-smiling, and walked after the manticore. He heard Malfoy’s footsteps behind him on the stone, echoing.

They walked down the stone hallway, following Corey. Torches lit as they went, lighting up the hall just ahead of them.

And then it opened up into another room. This one was wasn’t particularly large, but it had a fountain of sorts in the center. At least, Harry thought it was a fountain. It was the watery shape of some sort of animal with its snout open in a snarl, and claws raised. 

Beyond this fountain was a large iron-wrought door, with doorknobs.

“Alright, cool,” said Corey, “Now open the door for me. I want to see what’s there.”

“Are… you serious?” Harry asked, “You brought us down here to open the door for you?”

“I tried to open it myself, but I couldn't,” said Corey, “Now go use your human hands on that stupid doorknob.”

Harry stepped forward.

“Far be it from me to tell you how to go about doing your heroic stunts and such,” Malfoy drawled, “But don’t you want to cast a few diagnostics first to find out whether its cursed or not?”

Harry stopped short. He looked at Draco, who had his arms crossed over his chest and was looking quite bored.

“Corey touched it and it didn’t do anything.”

“Corey is a _manticore_ , there’s hardly any magic you could shoot at it to hurt it.”

“Well I haven’t had a chance to practice those diagnostic spells really,” Harry said.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “Really? Professor Savage introduced them a whole week ago.”

“Well _you_ do them if you’re so clever.”

Malfoy smirked and uncrossed his arms, letting his wand fall into his hand. He raised it, got a sort of squinty look on his face, and waved it. The door pulsed, and glowed blue. Another flick of the wand, and the door glowed with little red lines suspended in front of it. Another flick, and a series of white runes arranged in a circle appeared. 

“See, it’s warded after all.”

“But what does that mean?” Harry asked.

Malfoy served him a withering look. “Honestly, do you pay any attention at all in class?”

Harry was reminded, rather unpleasantly, of Hermione. “Of course I do! But I know you take Ancient Runes since you moan about it all the time in the common room, whereas I _don’t_. What does it say?”

Malfoy eyed the runes. “I think it’s some sort of riddle.”

“Oh, goodie!” Corey exclaimed, and hopped excitedly in place. “Read it for us, Draco.”

“What time even is it?” Malfoy asked crossly, “We’re going to miss dinner.”

“Just read it, sour-puss!” Corey complained.

“Fine,” Malfoy snapped, _“The way through is to slake my thirst for blood and virgins.”_

Harry grimaced, but Corey growled. “Stop joking around, Draco!”

Malfoy snorted. “You’re wasting my time, so I’m wasting yours.”

Corey snarled, and leaped at Malfoy, knocking him to the floor. Harry exclaimed in alarm, pulling his wand and shooting a Stunning spell. But the spell fizzled out on the manticore’s red fur, apparently having no effect.

But then he saw that Draco was laughing, actually laughing, shoving at the manticore’s terrifying maw packed full of teeth. It gave Harry pause. He didn’t think he’d ever seen Draco laugh at something that wasn’t a mean joke at someone’s expense. Also, what the fuck, was he roughhousing with a manticore? Malfoy had never before shown any sign of liking for any magical beast, not in any year of Care of Magical Creatures.

“Read it, Dray-co! You’re being no fun!” the manticore complained, even as its three rows of teeth closed on Malfoy’s forearm and tugged. But apparently not enough to hurt, because Draco reached up and pulled at Corey’s ear with his free hand. “Ow! Cut it out!”

 _“What’s happening?”_ Apophis hissed in Harry’s ear.

“I honestly have no clue,” Harry said.

“Fine! I’ll read it!” Malfoy shoved Corey off and got back on his feet. “Let’s see. _The only way to pass through is with…_ I don’t know that word… _turned thrice to the sound of…_ I don’t know that word either, or this bit… _autumn._ ”

“Malfoy, that’s practically useless,” said Harry.

“No it isn’t!” Corey was making a peculiar noise. It sounded almost orchestral. “Turn the doorknob thrice clockwise.”

Harry hesitated, and then reached out with one hand. He grasped the doorknob. It was warm, as if it had been sitting in the afternoon sun. Corey’s music intensified, with flutes and piano thrown in. Harry took a deep breath, and turned the knob thrice.

Malfoy’s diagnostic spell-lines vanished in wisps of light, and the door swung inward.

“Wow,” said Harry, impressed, “How did you know it was clockwise?”

Corey grinned. “Well it had to be one or the other, didn’t it?”

They peered past the door. Beyond was darkness. Something gurgled behind them. Harry whipped around, wand at the ready.

The watery fountain-creature had come alive, and what was more, it was swelling, growing taller and taller, gnashing its teeth and boiling and giving off steam.

“Or maybe it was counterclockwise?” said Corey.

The massive, boiling water-creature screamed at them.

“Oh, boy, this is more fun than I’ve had in years,” said the manticore. It reared up, turned on its heels, and dove into the darkness beyond the iron door.

Harry and Draco looked at each other, and then back at the boiling water-guardian.

“After you, Potter,” said Malfoy.

Harry put a hand on Apophis, who was squealing with fright, and dove into the dark after Corey.

**

He ran through the dark for what felt like quite a long time. And then, little by little, it was as if the blackness was being erased away from his eyes. It wasn’t that it was getting lighter, per se, but he found he was able to see. There was no color, and it was very quiet, nearly silent. The atmosphere was very much dreamlike. Harry spotted Corey standing before a pedestal.

Except it didn’t look anything like Corey. It was a person, human, with a slight body and dark hair that hung to the ankles. He knew it was Corey, the same way he knew who people were in dreams. As Harry stepped closer, color bloomed across Corey’s body, and he saw that the manticore-turned-person was wearing robes of deep crimson, and staring up at a pedestal. Upon the pedestal was a bow, gleaming. Below the bow was a plaque. On the plaque were runes.

“You know,” Harry said to Corey, in a voice that came out much quieter than it should, “I'm starting to get a little uneasy.”

Corey turned, hair floating up in the air as if they were underwater. Harry saw that Corey still had two mouths, and grinned full of fangs. “What, no! This is fun!”

“I think I’ve figured it out,” said Malfoy suddenly, appearing out of the blackness. Harry did a double take. He looked different too. His robes gleamed deep sapphire, and his face... his face had become even more pointed, more cruel, his eyes larger, the sclera of his eyes pitch-black, the angles of his face wrong, like he’d descended from wildcats rather than primates. “Wait. Potter, what happened to your face?”

Harry touched his face. He wondered what he looked like, if Corey and Malfoy had changed. He looked down at his hand. His nails were like claws, curved and black. “Holy shit.” Apophis hissed from somewhere under his robe collar.

“You’ve got antlers,” said Malfoy, looking up absently at Harry’s hairline, “It’s a good look.” And then, as if he realized what he’d said, he looked quickly away and up at the bow. “These are the catacombs of Hufflepuff. They were supposed to have been lost centuries ago. We’ve probably only scratched the surface.”

Harry was reaching up to feel for the antlers when water began to pool around their feet. It was burning hot. Harry hopped from one foot to the other, but Corey continued to stare up at the bow, apparently transfixed.

“Hufflepuff or whatever, we’ve _got_ to get out of here,” Harry said. He cast a cooling charm at the water at their feet, which helped a bit, but more water kept pouring in, and he had to keep casting.

Malfoy was looking at Corey. “You didn’t bring us here just for _exploring,_ did you?”

“No… You got me,” said the manticore dreamily.

Harry blasted the water with another cooling charm. It was up to their knees now, and there was a growling rumble in the darkness. “Guys! How do we get out of here?”

Draco was looking shrewdly at Corey, now. “What the fuck are you trying to pull, leading me to this bow?”

Corey said nothing, but leaped up, robes swirling slowly around two small, slender feet, and grabbed the bow in one hand.

The room was suddenly filled with blinding light. Apophis squawked in protest, and then Harry felt a hand grasping his wrist, and felt himself tugged into boiling water, and he chocked on it, this time _sure_ he was going to drown–

He rolled out of the pond in the Forest, shaking and steaming with hot water. Apophis was crying hysterically, and it took all of Harry’s attention to soothe her. When the little occamy had finally calmed, he looked up. He saw that Malfoy was staring down at the bow he held in his hands, looking normal again. He saw that Corey was laying languidly on the ground, licking at one paw.

There were crickets chirping. Apophis slithered off Harry’s shoulders to investigate the noise. Up above the canopy, there were stars, glittering faintly, and a cold wind rustling the branches. It sounded like the ocean.

Harry looked at Draco, to the bow, to the manticore, and back. He didn’t understand in the slightest what was going on.

Finally, Draco stood, holding the bow hanging at his side.

“Take us home, Corey,” he said quietly.

The manticore grinned, and got lightly to its feet.

“Apophis, come along,” said Harry softly, and the occamy came back to him, slithering up one leg and settling down again around his neck.

They walked through the forest, and no creature emerged to bother them. Once at the grounds, they left Corey in the trees.

As the two of them neared Hogwarts, Harry took out his invisibility cloak and threw it over the both of them. It was after curfew. They had to walk fairly close to fit together under the cloak, and even then, Harry was sure their feet were showing. Neither of them said anything to each other all the way up to their common room.

Something had happened between them that night, and Harry had no idea what.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> comments pls,, i love y'all thanks 4 readin


	13. Draco: Eyes Open

Draco sat in his bed, drapes pulled shut, a little ball of conjured light floating over his head.

Apophis and Potter had remained down in the common room, to hang out with all his loyal minions. Apparently he’d bonded with Draco’s occamy during the affair down in the forest.

Draco turned the bow over in his hands. It was surprisingly light, with a black grip and a sort of pale greenish sheen, the tips carved in an almost winglike shape. The string appeared to be permanently affixed to the bow.

This was a very old artifact, possibly from the dawn of magical history. From back when wix folk had enchanted actual weapons for channeling magic, before the rise of wands as a more universal and versatile tool.

Old though it was, the bow appeared to be in perfect shape. It seemed to be humming on some wavelength that he could not hear, only feel. There was powerful magic in this bow. And for it to have lasted so long… Draco supposed it must be true, that with magical blood being diluted over the generations with the mundane blood of muggles, the potency of magic was waning.

But a small part of him whispered: if that were the case, why had magic weakened in the pureblood lineages too? Was magic somehow draining from the world?

Draco gripped the bow tightly in his hands, felt its invisible vibration. For a moment, he was terribly afraid that the old magic in this bow, that had been preserved for centuries, might suddenly leak away.

**

On Monday morning, Draco had a free period. He took the bow with him down to the forest, and strode into the trees.

“Malfoy! What’re yeh up to?”

Draco turned. Just his luck. Hagrid was outside of his cabin, and had spotted him going into the forest.

“Um,” he said, as Hagridd came stomping towards him, “I’m looking for Corey.”

“Corey? Tha’s yer manticore, innit?”

“Yes…” Draco said, reluctantly.

Hagrid pointed into the woods. “Is it that one right there?”

Steeling himself, Draco turned. There stood Corey, wagging its huge spiked scorpion tail back and forth like an actual dog.

“Why, hullo there Corey!” said Hagrid brightly, “How’d you get into this forest?”

The manticore did not respond. This was so uncharacteristic of the beast that Draco squinted to make sure it was really Corey and not some other manticore.

“Well, we’ve go places to be, Professor. I’ll see you in class.”

“Now wait a minute. I can’ let you go wanderin’ off into the woods now can I?” Hagrid glanced down at the bow in Draco’s hand. “What’re you doin’ with that?”

Draco looked up at the half-giant scornfully. “What do you _think_ I’m going to do with it? Comb my hair?”

Hagrid shook his head. “If yeh want ter shoot it, yeh’d best do it out in my pumpkin patch where I practice with my crossbow. Don’t matter if yeh’ve got a manticore with you, I can’t have you goin' into the woods. S’against the rules.”

Draco scowled, but went with Hagrid down to the pumpkins. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw that Corey was following them.

Hagrid lumbered around in the pumpkin patch, and picked up a fallen-down scarecrow that was riddled with huge arrows. He leaned it against the fence.

“Now, yeh stay where I can keep an eye on ya, I’ve got a class coming in a mo.”

Hagrid looked longingly at Corey, but went on his way, apparently pulled along by a professorly instinct to go set up class. Draco was frankly shocked that such an instinct existed in Hagrid.

He walked up to the scarecrow and tugged an arrow out. He then walked over to the edge of the pumpkin patch, and nocked the arrow to the string. He drew the arrow back and took aim at the scarerow.

“Hold that bow higher!” Hagrid called, “And put yer shoulders back!”

Draco grimaced, but did as the giant-man said. His arms trembled with the strain of holding the tension, and he let go.

The string snapped with a dissonant musical _twang,_ and the arrow shattered into two pieces.

Draco frowned at the bow.

“Try conjuring an arrow, dipshit,” suggested Corey.

Draco turned and glared. “Who asked you?”

Corey smiled innocently. Draco paused, then slowly drew his wand, intending to make it look like he’d had the idea himself. Corey sighed, loudly.

“What is it now?”

“Don’t use your _wand,_ idiot!”

There was no way in seven hells he was going to be able to conjure an arrow wandlessly. But he tried anyway, focusing as hard as he could. Nothing happened.

“Conjure it with the _bow!_ Those opposable thumbs are utterly wasted on you, honestly.”

Shooting another sour look at the manticore, Draco held the bow up and put his fingers on the string again. He imagined how the previous arrow had felt like, and focused on drawing it into being as he pulled back on the string.

The arrow’s point, shaft, and fletching appeared, a perfect replica of the last one. He aimed it at the scarecrow’s head and let it fly.

This time, the bow made a sharp whistling sound as it fired, and the arrow didn’t break. It whipped through the air and stuck squarely between the scarecrow’s painted eyes with a satisfying _thump._

He lowered the bow. He’d never shot a bow before in his life. Surely it couldn’t be that easy.

“Corey… why did you lead me to this bow?”

Corey tilted its head to the side. “I wanted to test something.”

“Test what?”

But the manticore did not answer. Draco glared at it, and then realized something.

Apophis was tamed (mainly by Potter, but still). The courts had cleared his name. All that was left to do was to kill Corey, and the tasks for Samira would be fulfilled.

“Don’t move now or for the next five minutes,” ordered Draco quickly. Corey watched him, sitting perfectly still.

Draco put his hand on the string again. A cello’s bow with a sharp tip came into being. He pulled back on the bow, aiming it at the manticore.

But he hesitated.

A horrible, ear-popping, air-sizzling shriek of sound blared through the air, like a thousand voices all screaming at once in agony. In surprise, he let the arrow fly.

 _“NO!”_ he yelled, and the cello bow swerved from its course and struck the ground.

“Draco! You _care_. I’m touched!” Corey was grinning. “Can I move now?”

The air screamed again. Draco looked frantically around, every hair on his neck and body tingling with magical discharge, the acrid smell of crumbling spellwork making his eyes water. He hugged the bow close to his body, hoping desperately that whatever was happening, the priceless magical artifact would not be damaged by it.

There was something happening at the gates to the grounds. He could just make it out. The air was shimmering there, boiling, sizzling, and he saw that the ancient wards that had defended the school successfully for centuries were buckling under the force of this unknown onslaught.

And then it was gone. The smoking, bubbling, crackling wreckage of the school wards over the gates began slowly, painfully, to knit back together.

“Malfoy!” Hagrid was shouting, “Get back into the school!”

Draco stared at him, wordless, still frozen to the spot, feeling like he’d been punched in the heart and trying to recover from it.

 _“GO!”_ Hagrid roared, and Draco jumped, and sprinted back into the safety of the castle.

**

The castle was chaos. Students were pouring from the Great Hall, running through the halls, peering out windows. They’d all felt it, and were desperate to see what it was. Some of them made it out the doors to the grounds, and all began shouting and pointing at the damage done to the wards. Hagrid was hollering at them to all go back inside, but nobody was listening.

Draco fought his way through the crowd, catching the tiny first-year students as he went and ordering them sharply to follow him. They obeyed, when they saw the look on his face. Some of his _old_ blood must have woken in him, he knew, and it must be showing on his face. He could feel it burning in his heart, a savage, dark thing, a jealous, prideful thing, a thing beyond comprehension and compassion that could tear apart the fabric of reality and remake it into his own liking. The very source of his magical core. It’d only woken inside him a few times before, and those times it had been more of a sleepy half-opened eye, compared to what it was now. With his blood hissing and humming in his ears, he gathered up all the first years in the span of about a minute, and herded them up to their common room. Quite a few of his seventh-year classmates were trailing along in his wake too, feeling the pull of that force that had opened up in Draco’s heart like a geyser.

He threw open one of the windows in the common room, a circular one with stained glass tinted yellow and blue, a sun on a sunny day, and pulled the string on his bow. A silver arrow materialized there, and he looked down at the gates of Hogwarts, which were still bubbling and bleeding.

It was like his vision had zoomed, like everything around him had gone quiet, the frightened whispers behind him, the third terrible shriek in the air of the grounds, and he could see, in perfect clarity, the shape of an intruder ( _how dare they_ ) sitting in a car just outside the gates, a beat-up, faded blue muggle car with some unknown, circular thing like a white, blind eye ( _how dare they_ ) hooked up on top of it.

He let go of a slow breath, and the bowstring. With a high whistling sound, the arrow flew, streaking towards the car, smashing into the unseeing pupil, and breaking the white eye clean in half.

The terrible thousand-voiced-shriek of the wards stopped.

He tried to watch the car, but his vision was retreating to a normal distance, and all he could see was the car driving away, and then all he could see was the road beyond the gates, and all he could see was the little gates on the edge of the grounds, tiny and indistinct.

The blood all rushed out of his head at once and he stumbled, hitting his head against the window-frame and sinking to the floor. But somebody caught him, as his vision fogged black, and then came back.

People were talking to him, asking him questions, but the language coming out of their mouths didn’t make sense. The old blood in him was falling back asleep, deep asleep, and he was falling asleep too.

And then he woke up, lying on the ground of the common room with all his classmates and first-year housemates leaning over him.

“What was that?” said a first-year girl.

“What did you _do?”_ asked Potter, who was holding his bow.

Draco felt a surge of fury. “Give that back!” He meant to lurch forward, snatch at the bow, but instead felt dizzy. His hand barely twitched. “Fuck. I’m pathetic. That wasn’t even ten minutes, was it?”

“What’re you talking about?” Potter asked.

Draco shut his eyes tight, opened them again. “Something… somebody was attacking the school. It woke me up, but apparently I couldn’t sustain it very long.” 

“ _What_ are you talking about?” Potter repeated.

Draco sat up, taking it slowly this time.

“You looked different,” said the first-year girl, hushed, “You looked _scary_.”

“I think I’ve read about this,” said Granger, because of course. “But I’d written it off a pure-blood propaganda.”

“It’s not propaganda, but it’s _dark_ ,” said Weasley uneasily, “It’s the wild kind of magic, you can’t really control it.”

Draco scoffed, “Of course you can control it.”

Weasley raised an eyebrow. “Oh yeah? Let’s see you do it again.”

Draco sneered at him. “I’m not some circus crup, performing tricks on command. In case you couldn’t tell, just that little bit wiped me out.” 

“How do you do it?” the first-year wanted to know, “Teach me, it looked wicked cool!”

“Are you a pureblood?” Draco asked, even though he would bet she weren’t. If she were a proper pureblood, her parents would’ve mentioned the old magic to her.

“Um, no. I’m half. My mum’s a muggle.”

Draco shrugged. “Well then, fat chance of you ever turning it on. I’m not saying it’s impossible. But very nearly so. Your blood’s too dilute.”

The little girl looked very put out.

Granger’s hair was bristling. “We are not getting into this nonsense again! You’re not _more magic_ than I am because of your inbred lineage, Malfoy!”

A great, breath-held kind of pause, as everyone glanced between Draco and Granger.

Draco was about to snap out that _sure,_ nobody was quite certain where muggleborns got their pizzazz, but that it was _probably_ because they were distantly related to wix, whether through bastards or hushed-up squibs or what. Either that or they’d soaked up the magic somehow, sucked it away from its rightful owner. Draco personally thought it was the former. Muggles were all mundane, there were no two ways about it. You needed magic in your blood in order to control it. You either had it or you didn’t. Granger probably had a great-great-grandparent who’d fooled around a bit with a cute local muggle. But he held it back.

“Sure,” he said, as loftily as possible, “By the way, _you’re all welcome_ for saving your arses from whatever lunatic was trying to break down the Hogwarts wards.”

He snatched his bow back from Potter and stalked up to the dorms. He decided he would sleep through the day, classes be damned. He’d earned it.


	14. Harry: The Forest Flutist

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The woods are dark and deep and oceanic. The breakfast table is rowdy.

Harry heavily eavesdropped on the Slyterins’ conversation at lunch. Apparently Malfoy hadn’t been to class since the weird incident in the morning, when his face and demeanor had changed and he’d shot an arrow (successfully?) at the intruder who’d tried to break the Hogwarts gates.

The Malfoy that had shot the arrow from their common room had been something else entirely. He’d been like some sort of dark creature. There had been a sort of magnetism to him, a head-turning, hair-raising feeling that made you a little afraid of looking at him directly, but unable to look away.

Their Defense Against the Dark Arts in the afternoon was far too hands-on to have proper conversation in, but the three of them picked their usual seat in the back of Transfiguration. They were able to have quite an uninterrupted discussion under the chaotic cover of transfiguring ravens into writing desks and back. The challenge was as much in gathering together enough birds to form a desk as it was to cast the actual spell. If you didn’t use at least five ravens, the desk was liable to buckle under its own weight.

Harry hadn’t told Ron and Hermmione about his foray into the Forbidden forest with Malfoy and the manticore yet. And he didn’t particularly want to. Maybe he would in the future, but for now he hadn’t had the time to fully digest it for himself. But there was plenty to pick over from the morning.

“So what was trying to break onto the grounds, you reckon?” Ron asked, as he struggled with corralling several ravens into a corner so they could practice on them properly. 

“We’ll get to that, but I really want to know is how Malfoy did what he did,” said Hermione, “That looked like a fully-fleged faewakening to me, but it’s supposed to be really difficult, and from what I’ve read it’s typically catalyzed by an outside force. Surely an attack on the wards wouldn’t cause him to transform?”

“What’s faewakening?” Harry asked.

“Fae-reawakening,” said Ron, “It’s when you rip open your magical core to its root and let the pure magic shit out. Or something, I dunno the details. Stupid thing to do. He could’ve well lost his head over something meaningless and killed someone. That happens, you know. I heard one of my great-great-grandmums faewoke and then murdered her fiancé for not bringing home milk like he promised he would.”

“Wow, really?” Harry asked.

Ron shrugged, “Well, Mum said something like that. But it was while she was telling off Fred for forgetting to water the chickens, so the story might be a bit embellished.”

Hermione swept her wand, and about six ravens squawked and huddled together. “Is it… not true, what he said, is it? That your blood matters for that kind of magic?”

Ron shrugged, “Dunno, but who cares if it did? Nobody does it on purpose unless they’re an absolute nutter, because like I said, it’s fucking stupid. It’s not even that you get more powerful, really. I don’t see the point.”

With a complicated twirl of her wand, Hermione turned the six ravens into a beautiful baroque desk. Her lips were pursed together. She looked to be deep in thought.

Ron gestured at the desk. “See, look at that. I’m sure you could faewake if you really wanted to, but it’d only get in the way if you ask me. You’re such a brilliant spellcaster as it is, you don’t need wild magic to do the work for you.”

Hermione smiled at Ron. Harry raised his wand to de-transfigure the desk. He wondered if the trip to the catacombs had anything to do with Malfoy’s faewakening. And if so, would it have some effect on Harry, too?

He twirled his wand, muttering the incantation (silent casting was still hard for him), and the writing desk collapsed into a pile of angry birds. Several of them still had their feathers sticking together. One pair had their feet stuck to one another, and squawked indignantly.

“Nice,” said Ron, “My turn.”

Harry nodded. “Well, what _do_ you think was attacking Hogwarts?”

“That’s the thing, isn’t it?” said Ron, as he brandished his wand at the ravens, “I haven’t got a clue. Why would _anyone_ do that? You'd have to be mental to even try. But we can’t worry too much about it. I’ve already worried enough about stuff to last me the rest of my life. I don’t have to worry about anything else, forever.”

He waved his wand. The ravens congealed into a rather lopsided desk with several fluttering wings sticking out of it. Ron cursed.

“Sorry Ron, I don’t think I detransfigured them properly,” said Harry, as Hermione turned the desk back into a set of fully-functional ravens. Two of them flapped hastily off.

“No, I’m just shit at this. There’s just too many god damn birds to work with.”

**

Dinner, and still no sign of Draco. Harry didn’t want to seem like he was worried about him, and so didn’t comment on it out loud. The topic around the dinner table was still the attack in the morning. Little Abigail Abernathy swore up and down that it must be the work of Voldemort’s little brother, Moldewart, and had half her classmates convinced of it by the end of dinner.

That night, Harry donned his invisibility cloak and slipped out of the dormitories alone. He walked down through the silent halls, past crumbled-down walls, and out into the grounds.

A light was flickering in Hagrid’s cabin. Harry’s feet very nearly took him there, but he still didn’t want to talk about this with Ron and Hermione, and if he confided in Hagrid, it was sure to slip out. He turned to the Forbidden Forest.

The night air was chill and rushing, the trunks of the trees creaking. He saw something move, brilliantly red even in the darkness, slipping away through the trees.

He cast a silencing charm on his feet, and followed it.

The manticore padded leisurely through the woods, its tail swinging slowly side to side as it went, until it came upon the pond. There, the beast stopped for about a minute, standing motionless, before it turned and carried on through the dark, Harry treading softly on its heels.

He didn't know how far or how long he’d walked, but he refreshed his silencing charm twice. It didn't really occur to Harry how foolish this was, following a manticore deeper and deeper into the forest. There was something peaceful about it, and the fear Harry had initially felt while stepping into the forest had long melted away. It was as if he were floating through an ocean of dark trees, sinking deeper and deeper, the turmoil of the outside world fading away far beyond the canopy.

And then the manticore led the way out of the woods.

Harry blinked. This wasn’t Hogwarts. There was a paved road not a stone’s throw away from the trees, and a car parked in the grass adjacent. A woman was sitting on the hood of the vehicle, wrapped up in a scarf and playing a silver flute. The sound was high and eerie, and Harry hadn’t even had the time to be confused by this scene when she lowered the flute from her lips and called out to the manticore.

“Corey! Where’ve you been? My fingers’ve gone numb, playing for you.”

“Out walking,” said Corey, striding out of the forest and up to the woman’s car, tail standing tall, “Did you bring me something to eat? You know I wouldn’t hesitate to swallow you whole.”

The woman laughed. “I still don’t believe you.” But she hopped off the hood of the car and opened the passenger-side door, rifling around in there somewhere. She tossed a dark shape into the air. Corey leaped up to catch it, and had swallowed it by the time its paws had hit the ground once more.

“You’re going to drive me to brokesville, eating like this,” said the woman, but she sounded good-natured.

“I saw your work this morning,” said Corey, “you’d almost done it. What happened?”

The woman sighed. “Something came flying and shattered my equipment. I don’t know what.”

“Hm,” said Corey, “Oh well. You can always try again, right?”

The woman was leaning against her car. “And you’ll help me?”

“Keep those filet mignons coming and I’ll do anything,” said Corey, “You don’t even want to _know_ how far I’d debase myself for a good cut of raw steak.”

“I don’t understand it. You could go eat a whole cow whenever you wanted, what’s stopping you?”

Corey sat down in the grass next to the car, and licked one paw. “The magic police would be after me if I started killing too many things. This is more fun, anyway. Did you get some video at least?”

“Yeah, here, look,” said the woman, and pulled something else out of her car. The bright blue screen of a – Harry thought it might be a camcorder, but he wasn’t sure – lit up. Corey reared up and thumped two paws on the car’s hood to get a better view.

“Hey! Easy on my baby!”

“Ooh, shiny,” said Corey, its face lit with electronic light. 

Harry took a step back into the woods. He had to get back before they noticed him. Unfortunately, he stepped on a twig, which snapped, loudly. The silencing charm had worn off again.

“What was that?” Corey asked sharply, picking its head up.

It took Harry a few tries to pull off another wordless silencing charm, and by then Corey was stalking back to the forest. Harry slipped away and started running, and when he thought he’d run far enough away he threw caution to the wind and summoned a school broom. It took him several, very desperate tries, but he succeeded.

He leaped on, and took the broom high up, breaking through the canopy, into the torrent of chill wind in the treetops, and then even higher, the air growing colder and colder around him, rushing in his ears. Fortunately the sky was clear, and he was able to spot Hogwarts and make his way home.

**

There was a front-page splash in the Prophet the next morning about the Hogwarts attacker, and wild speculation on who could be the culprit. None of which sounded much more substantial than Abigail’s “Moldewart” theory.

Malfoy did show up to breakfast. But he was somewhat late, towed reluctantly along by Goyle and Zambini, the latter of which strode confidently up to the Griffindor end of the table and took a seat across from Harry, right next to Ron. Ron side-eyed him very sourly, but Zambini appeared not to notice.

Harry had just been working up the nerve to tell Ron and Hermione about Corey and what he’d seen last night. And also the excursion into the forest with Malfoy. But with Blaise here, there was no chance of that.

Blaise took a swig of pumpkin juice. “So! For our next party, we should do a theme. I’m thinking… Muggle Mayhem. Granger, what sort of muggle party decorations are _authentic?”_

And then Goyle, apparently at a loss of where to sit when not being directly ordered around, dragged Malfoy over to sit down right next to them.

“Fuck _off_ , Greg,” Malfoy hissed, tugging his sleeve back from Goyle’s meaty fist, “We’re not sitting here.”

“But…” said Goyle, looking uncertainly at Blaise.

Zambini waved a hand airily, “Oh, come now, Draco, don’t be a sourpuss. Just sit down next to your boy-crush already, I’m sure Potter doesn’t mind. He might even give you another kiss.”

Ron choked on his toast, and Malfoy appeared to physically swell with fury. For a second, Harry thought Malfoy might go all scary-faced and weird again, but then Goyle patted Draco on the shoulder, knocking him onto the bench next to Harry. Malfoy sat there stiffly for a moment, but then seemed to decide that standing back up would look like weakness, and swung his legs around to sit properly at the table, helping himself to some eggs with a bitter sort of expression firmly affixed to his face. Harry tried not to look bothered by this arrangement.

Hermione was looking at Blaise. “You’re… awfully friendly lately, aren’t you?”

“Well, you know,” said Blaise smiling a very clinical sort of smile that didn’t reach his eyes, “It’s important to make the right sort of friends, isn’t it?”

“Classic Slytherin bullshit,” said Ron, who had recovered from his toast.

“No, we’re all in house _Pigfarts_ now, didn’t you hear? The first-years worked it out.”

“Oh, fuck no,” said Ron, “Like hell I’m going to be in house Pigfarts.”

“Well, then go vote on the names, the list’s in the common room,” Blaise said dismissively. “But anyway, party. This Saturday good for everyone?”

“We _cannot_ have parties every weekend,” said Hermione, “we’ve all got NEWT classes to study for. The first test is in two weeks!”

Blaise sighed, heavily. “ _Graaaanger_ , it’s not my fault you slacked off school all last year–”

“She was being _hunted_ for being a _muggleborn_ –” Ron interrupted heatedly.

But Blaise cut him off in turn, “–but the rest of us are young and beautiful and trying to have the time of our lives. You don’t have to come if you’d rather keep your nose in a book all weekend. What’s the point, anyway? You’ll no doubt get any job you want just for being the Chosen One’s best mate.”

Now it was Hermione’s turn to swell with fury. “Unlike _some_ people, I want to get by on my own _merit_.”

And then Malfoy spoke, in his signature drawling voice, “Isn’t she precious. Granger, you’ve proved your _merit_ already. Getting perfect scores on your three-foot-long Transfiguration essays at this point is just showing off what an insufferable swot you are. I swear. It’s like you don’t know a damn thing about anything that isn’t written in a moldy old relic.”

“You just wish you were half as smart as she is,” spat Ron.

Malfoy laughed at that. "Just because I don’t spend every waking moment licking our professors’ heels to prove my brains doesn't mean I don't _have_ any. Granger, Blaise is just trying to save you the trouble of working to get perfect NEWT scores when we all know you could get by with two Acceptables and a Poor, having done what you’ve already done.”

He paused. “Then again, _you_ actually have to get a _job_ when you graduate. How vulgar.”

“So do you,” Ron shot back, “Harry’s inheriting all your gold, isn’t he?”

“As if that’s actually going to go through,” Draco scoffed, “I’m planning to marry rich in any case.”

“If you married Potter, that’d solve that problem then,” Blaise suggested, grinning slyly. Draco picked up a fistful of scrambled egg and threw it at Zambini, who dodged, very narrowly.

“One more word out of you and I’ll hex your head so far up your arse you’ll get to eat your breakfast _twice_ ,” spat Draco.

“I’d be a mobius loop… rather artistic,” said Blaise thoughtfully.

Harry was trading a meaningful look at Ron. It was very, very strange to see the Slytherins bantering like this. But perhaps it was impossible for them to be actively evil for every second of the day.

Said a voice, “Hi, what’s this? Inter-house unity between mortal enemies? Did it only take a couple weeks to achieve it?” Harry looked up, and saw Parvati Patil had walked up with Lavender, as well as Millicent and _Pansy_ , of all people. Harry looked down the table, and saw that the separated house lines that had been quite rigid initially were definitely breaking down.

“A couple weeks and a _great party_ ,” said Blaise smugly, “And some kisses all around, isn’t that right?” He grinned triumphantly at Harry. Harry heard Malfoy make a soft growling sound beside him.

“Lay off it, Zambini, I think he really might hex you,” Harry said.

Blaise snorted. “As if it’d be the first time Draco and I hexed each other. He knows by now that I’m quicker on the draw than he is, isn’t that right, Draco?”

“You might be quicker but I can still hex you into a pretzel after taking ten of your limp stinging curses,” Malfoy said haughtily.

“Ha! Puh-lease, you blubber like a baby after just one.”

“He sure does,” said Pansy, who had found a seat further down the table, but apparently still within earshot.

“Urgh,” said Malfoy, and dramatically lay his head and arms down on the table, knocking aside his plate. “Would you all shut the fuck up and let me _sleep_ , I’m _exhausted_ by your childish bullshit.”

Harry looked at Malfoy, who was now lying motionless with his head down on the table, to Blaise, who was slathering toast with an obscene quantity of butter, to Ron and Hermione, who were looking back at him with matching disbelieving looks.

“So, erm,” said Ron, “You going to get a new broom, Harry? You could get another Firebolt.”

Harry shrugged. “I dunno, it seems like a bit much to buy myself another one of those…”

“Oh, _honestly_ ,” said Malfoy’s snottily. He’d picked his head back up from the table, “The Firebolt’s passé by now, it’s four or five years old. If Potter wants to show off to the rest of us how he’s got the fanciest new broom, he’ll go drop his newfound fortune on the Kamikaze.”

“Kamikaze?” Ron asked, looking interested despite himself.

Malfoy waved a hand. “While the Dark Lord was busy dicking around with everybody in the UK and generally causing the worst economic situation imaginable, the Japanese have made some breakthrough in slipstream charms. It’s supposed to be able to break the sound barrier. The International teams are all picking between the Kamikaze or the German Lichtgeschwindigkeit for the upcoming World Cup. The Kamikaze is supposed to be faster on the straightaway, but the Lichtgeschwindigkeit is able to turn on an absolute hair–”

“And that’s my cue to go to class,” said Blaise firmly, “We’ve devolved into Quidditch nonsense.”

“How can you not want to talk Quidditch?” Ron demanded, looking gobsmacked.

 _“Ooh the new flying branch goes even faster than the old flying branch, time to catch some flying balls, but only one flying ball actually matters,”_ said Blaise nasally, “Dumbest sport ever. Buh-bye.”

And with that, he slung his bookbag over one shoulder and left.

“Actually… why am I even talking to you peguses-arses?” Draco said wearily, “I bet you’ll _actually_ buy the newest International-standard racing broom, won’t you Potter?”

“Er…” said Harry. He actually liked the sound of the Lichtgeschwindigkeit. Maneuverability was so important for a Seeker.

And then Draco was looking right at him, and Harry remembered how he’d looked in that dark place with the bow, all dark-eyed and inhuman. Ethereal. Entrancing and terrifying beyond reality. He swallowed, mouth oddly dry all of a sudden.

“Actually, there’s something I ought to talk to you about,” he said to Malfoy, and then looked over at his friends, who were looking thoroughly confused, “And you two. I don’t really want to be overheard here though, can we meet in the Room of Requirement tonight?”

“What could you possibly have to tell me–” Malfoy began.

Harry cut him off. “Corey.” With that, Malfoy’s mouth snapped shut. It was almost comical.

“Corey? Who's that?” Hermione asked. Ron was frowning deeply beside her.

“I’ll tell you later, I promise,” Harry said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> each of these chapters is fun to write! but I post them because I am shamelessly thirsty for validation. validate me now, readerss...... and have an alright week!


	15. Draco: Shit Outta Luck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco doesn't enjoy his fall semester

After dinner that day, Draco went straight up to the Room of Hidden Things, which he was fairly certain was what Potter had meant when he’d said ‘Room of Requirement.’ He wasn’t sure it would be working, after the Fiendfyre last year.

In front of the troll tapestry, he began to pace. _I need a place to hide and talk to Potter and his stupid gang…_

Inside was a small room with a sagging couch, candlelit. This gave Draco pause. Where had all the towering mountains of burnt objects gone? That enormous room with its vaulted ceilings? After a further moment of hesitation, Draco sat down on the couch, and fished his homework from his bookbag. After finishing the chapter on _Timeliness Tinctures_ , he lay down on the couch. It might well be a while before Potter and his gang showed up.

He sighed. What was he doing? Potter was going to come in here, and demand explanations, and ask about Corey… Why hadn’t he just slayed the manticore? All he had to do was kill Corey, and he could escape this hellhole and go back to India, where Samira was waiting for him.

He remembered, vaguely, how Samira had mentioned that Corey might enchant him. Perhaps he’d been enchanted. Perhaps that’s what had stopped him. But Corey had given him that bow in the first place. As strange as it was, he rather liked Corey, and it suddenly seemed sinister that Samira had asked this task of him, to slay a sentient creature who was so… amicable. Sure, Corey had some serious faults, mainly intractability and excessive talkativity, but the beast had certainly had ample opportunity to kill Draco, and hadn’t.

Again, he wondered if he’d been enchanted. He didn’t want to think so.

And maybe there was another reason he didn’t want to kill the manticore. Because then he would marry Samira Singh. And.

An image welled up behind his closed eyes, in the dark room, in the catacombs of Hufflepuff, of Harry Potter standing in the light of the ancient bow, antlers spiraling up, his face angled and ancient, eyes slitted like a snake and every tooth razor-sharp, the faint fluttering of a forked tongue as he spoke.

Draco put the heels of both palms up to his eyes. This was the _worst_ thing, definitely. That trip into the forest had done something to him, he was sure of it. And it didn’t help that he was eating and sleeping in the same general space that Potter was, and that with everything that had happened in the last year, with Potter saving his life, with the edge wearing off the hatred that Draco had honed for Harry for seven straight years… At the core of it, there was that bitter fury at being spurned on that very first day, that jealous desire that he’d worked so hard to sheathe with enmity.

He felt like his old blood might be humming again, just a little bit. There was a sort of tremble under the skin in his fingers. Draco took his hands away from his face, and opened his eyes, and looked up at the ceiling of this little Room of Hidden Things.

“Fuck,” he swore softly to himself, “You absolute idiot. How could you possibly let yourself have a _crush_ on–”

The door opened, and Harry Potter stepped in. Draco suddenly wished he’d skipped coming here altogether.

“Hi,” said Harry, after a pause, stupid messy hair falling around his stupid face. He was alone and unaccompanied by his minions. Because _that’s_ what Draco needed right now.

Draco’s first instinct upon seeing Potter was to try and come up with something devastating to say. But Draco was so messed up from his own thoughts at the moment that he thought it might be safest to remain silent.

Harry looked around, and then sat down in a cushy armchair that had appeared as he’d entered. Draco tried not to stare at him, and failed.

“So what’d you want to tell me about Corey?” Draco asked, trying for a bored and inconvenienced tone and mostly nailing it.

Harry shrugged. “I’ll wait for Ron and Hermione to come, they’ll need to hear it too.”

“Why didn’t you come with them? I thought you didn’t even go for a piss without your handmaidens there to assist you.”

Harry scowled at him. Draco was simultaneously gratified and ashamed, and then ashamed for being ashamed.

“I actually wanted to ask you something, one-on-one,” Harry said, and Draco tried not to feel faint. He congratulated himself on his foresight for lying down on the couch. “What was that whole… thing underground? Did that have something to do with you turning all, yunno, faewakened, yesterday?”

“Maybe,” Draco said dismissively. And then, less dismissively, “…Probably. But the ancient bow in my hand and the wards getting attacked probably contributed. I’m not going to explain all the intricacies of the old laws and old magic to you, it’d take ages and I haven’t got the patience.”

Also, he didn’t really know enough about it to be a real expert on the subject, but he left that part out.

“Hm,” Harry said, and tapped his fingers on his knee absently.

Draco watched him, fighting a monstrous inner battle. Was this an opening to be Harry’s friend? No, no, why was Draco even _considering_ this, why wasn’t he hunting down Corey right now? As if Draco _wanted_ to Harry’s friend anyway, not in a million lifetimes, not after they’d been at each other’s throats for years…

“What’re you staring at?” Harry asked, and Draco belatedly realized he’d been staring.

“I was wondering what that gross wart on your face was, and then I realized it was your nose,” Draco said, on reflex. Nevermind that Harry had a perfect nose, even if it was slightly crooked.

Harry scowled again. “You really are an ass, Mafoy, you know that?”

“I’m not just an ass, I’m a _great_ ass,” Draco said, loftily.

Harry’s face twitched, and then he barked a short laugh. “You know, I know you’re a bigoted prat who leaped like an eager puppy at the first chance to join Voldemort–” Draco winced, not just at the Dark Lord’s name, but because what Harry said was true, “–but I sort of think you could be likeable, yunno, if you weren’t constantly being a total dick to literally every person that crosses your path.”

Draco sneered. “I don’t need friendship lessons from the great gleaming messiah, thanks. I’m perfectly happy to wallow in the grim consequences of my life choices.”

Harry was smiling a little. “See? I didn’t even know you _did_ self-deprecating humor. I thought you only found joy in making fun of how I don’t have any proper family.”

If Draco had a lesser backbone, he would’ve immediately looked away at this. Instead, he waited three seconds before looking away. “Well.” _Say sorry_ , he told himself, _this is where you say you’re fucking SORRY_. “You’d better not expect me to give that up, it’s one of the main things I look forward to in the morning.” _Nailed it._

“You look forward to insulting me?” Harry asked, sounding amused, “That’s sort of, er. Cute, I guess?”

An alarm started blaring in Draco’s head: _OH FUCK. OH FUCK. OH FUCK._ What was even happening? What was he supposed to do when Harry Potter said something like that, directly into his face?

And then Weasley and Granger came in, thus saving and condemning Draco in one neat swoop.

And Harry explained how he had followed Corey last night, and how he had followed Draco the previous night, and about Hufflepuff’s catacombs, and so on. The two of them gasped and protested in the most satisfying way at they heard the story. Crabbe and Goyle had never been great listeners.

“So I think Corey’s in league with the person who attacked the school,” finished Harry.

Draco snorted. “Corey’s extracting steaks and belly-rubs, from the sound of it. You make it sound like the beast has an agenda.”

“Well, it does sound like he’s helping this person,” said Granger.

“It,” corrected Draco.

“I’m sorry?”

“Corey doesn’t have a gender, I asked.”

“It’s got a mane, though, doesn’t that make it a boy lion?” Harry asked.

“Manticore,” corrected Draco.

Hermione was frowning slightly. “Well, Professor Savage goes by _ze, zir_ pronouns, so if we’re saying this manticore has a personhood, we ought to use person pronouns, right? Using _it_ makes Corey sound like an object, but obviously the creature is quite intelligent–”

“Are we going to quibble over semantics, or are we going to get down to the actual problem?” Weasley demanded.

Draco stared over at Weasley in open shock. “I didn’t know you knew the word _semantics_. Good for you, Weasel.” Weasley’s ears turned a satisfying pink.

“Shut up, Malfoy. Remember what I said about being a dick,” said Harry.

“Whatever it was, I was definitely not listening,” Draco said, “Look, I can sort out Corey, it’s got to listen to my orders.”

“But then how did it escape your house in the first place?” Granger asked.

“I haven’t the faintest. But if that’s no good for you, I can write my mother, and she’ll have some Ministry peon or three come catch the manticore and lock it up.” He paused. “I feel sort of bad doing that to Corey, though. It seemed happy living in the forest.”

“Be careful, Malfoy, your non-dickishness is showing,” Harry warned. Weasley and Granger looked over at Potter, aghast.

“Potter, if you want me to show you my dick you just have to ask,” said Draco, before he could stop himself. And then he tried desperately not to blush.

By some miracle, Harry snorted.

But Weasley said, “What in the bloody pits of hell is going on between you two?”

“I don’t know about your glittering savior boy, but I’m sort of tired,” said Draco, “What time is it, like eight? I’ve only slept like nine hours in the past day.” He stood, and gathered up his bookbag. “Pardon me, but this has been an absolutely terrific waste of my time. I’m going to go get some beauty rest.”

“You slept through all your classes yesterday, what’re you talking about?” Harry asked.

“That was _yesterday_. For shit's sake, Scarhead. I think all those Killing Curses have fried your brains,” said Draco, and left, gracefully and with his dignity wholly and totally intact.

**

Several days later, a fifth-year Slytherin stormed up to Draco at dinner and informed him that he was being kicked off the Quidditch team, on account of him having missed every practice thus far.

“Ha,” said Draco blandly, “I’m wounded, you utter bilge-lick. Go away.”

The Slytherin captain stalked off in a huff, and Draco noted that he didn’t really feel anything about having been booted from the team. He suspected that his mental state had been all out of whack since shooting that arrow… or was that since joining the war? Some days he felt almost normal. Other days it was like some unseen force was trying to actively drag his soul to hell.

**

The days and months started to pass, one after another, each one as featureless as the last. He slept through Hallow’s Eve and the costume party Blaise threw in the dorm. Absolutely nothing of note happened in November, except for the first snow.

He watched the snow as it fell, looking out towards the Forbidden Forest, wondering how Corey was faring in the cold. Draco hadn’t gone any closer to the forest than Hagrid’s cabin, and hadn’t seen the manticore since he’d shot at it with the bow.

His grades were slipping, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to care. He was passing his classes, but just barely. Except for Care of Magical Creatures, which he assumed he must be failing, since he’d missed eight of the last ten classes. It was cold outside. He didn’t much feel like going. Apophis was perfectly controlled under the magic of Potter’s parseltongue, anyway.

And then December had arrived, and Draco was busily sleeping through another Monday, when Potter came by in the afternoon to pester him.

Potter pulled the curtains aside and threw something at Draco, which hit him in the head, squawked, and bit him sharply on the ear.

Draco opened one eye and snatched Apophis away from his head. He received a bite on the wrist, and tried to shake the blasted creature off, but the occamy held fast.

“Go get fucked, Potter,” Draco growled, and put a pillow over his head.

He felt somebody flop onto the foot of his bed, and Harry’s voice came to him, muffled through the pillow. “Draco. You really ought to go see Pomfrey. I think you might be seriously depressed.”

“Shut up, dick-cheese,” Draco snapped.

“Dick-cheese. That’s a new one,” said Potter’s voice. And then there was a hissing noise. He felt Apophis detach from his wrist. “Malfoy, come on. Get up.”

Draco removed the pillow and glared at him. “If I’m depressed it’s only because I’m being harassed by an utter nitwit. Leave me alone. Why are you even talking to me?” Draco could guess why, though. It was because Harry Potter was _nice_ , whereas Blaise and the lot couldn't be bothered, not when they knew Draco was liable to hex them for interrupting a nap. Potter didn't have that experience. Yet.

Potter cocked his head to one side, absently cradling Apophis to his chest. “Malfoy, you realize this whole dormitory is practically a psych ward, right? Half the school’s nursing a crippling mental illness.”

Draco squinted at him. “What are you talking about?”

“Really?” Harry said, frowning, “I thought you knew. Post-traumatic-stress is going ‘round like the flu, Pomfrey has everyone taking Calming Droughts and Cheering Charms. How have you not noticed? I woke up the other night to Ron standing over me with his wand out. I barely escaped his _Incendio_ with my life. He’s actually a really good spellcaster when he’s sleepwalking through a nightmare, it turns out.”

Draco thought he might’ve remembered some commotion like that, vaguely. But he’d slept through most of it.

“I just assumed that’s what passed for a prank amongst Griffindors.” Draco shrugged. 

Harry raised an eyebrow, patting Apophis as she chirped and flickered her tongue at his chin.

“…Why do you give two shits if I sleep all the time, anyway?” Draco asked, “It’s none of your business.”

Harry shrugged. “I’m sort of worried that you’ve only been less of an arsehole lately because you’re clinically depressed and can’t work up the energy to taunt people properly.”

Well, that actually stung a bit. Not in the least because it rang dangerously close to true. “Stop saying I’m depressed.”

Harry shrugged. “All I’m saying is that you ought to go see Pomfrey. She might be able to help.”

Draco scowled, and started to pull the pillow back over his head.

“Also,” said Harry, “Corey’s here to see you.”

Draco froze. “What.”

“Surprise!” said Corey’s voice, and Draco’s bed bounced heavily as the manticore leaped up on it. Potter’s invisibility cloak slipped off Corey and pooled on the bed.

Draco stared at the beast, rendered utterly speechless. He then turned to Harry.

“What were you _thinking_ , letting Corey into the school?”

“Er,” said Harry, who at least had the decency to look ashamed, “It made sense at the time.”

At this, Draco turned his glare back to Corey. “Did you enchant him, Corey?”

Corey gave a lionish approximation of a shrug. “I’m just very persuasive, little pale one.”

Harry was mouthing _“little pale one?”_ which Draco pointedly ignored.

“You have no idea how cold it is out there!” Corey said indignantly, and sat down. (Draco’s bed creaked at the shifting weight). “And you’d abandoned me to the ice! The water froze, Draco. _Froze!”_

“This manticore is your problem now, Potter,” said Malfoy biterly, “I’m washing my hands of this nonsense.”

Corey leaned forward and licked Draco square on the forehead. Its tongue was burning-hot, breath smelling like a smokey fire and a sunny day.

Malfoy groaned with frustration.

“Harry Potter tells me you’ve been _sad_ and _pathetic_ , Dray-co.”

“Did he now.” Draco glared again at Harry, who was grinning a little, the smug shit. Draco tried kicking him through the blankets, but Harry dodged it by standing up and leaving the boy’s dorm, like a coward.

“Are we going home for Christmas? I’d like to have a Christmas. I don’t think I’ve ever had a Christmas,” said Corey.

He grunted noncommittally. Corey fixed him with a deadly red stare, and then dropped its voice low. “Are you still going to try and kill me, Draco?”

Draco grimaced.

“I think I have a right to know. Do you want me around? Or am I free to go?”

Something about the way the manticore said it made it sound like a riddle.

“Corey,” he said wearily, “I’m tired, alright? And... I don’t know. I was supposed to kill you, but apparently I can’t work up the energy to do it.”

The manticore’s tail lashed. Draco’s bedspread tore under the sharp spines. “Weak! Weak way to say it! Do you want to kill me or _not?”_

“No, alright, I don’t want to kill you,” Draco groaned, “But I _do_ want to kill Potter for bringing you up here.”

Corey watched him, and then laid down, tucking its front paws under its chest like a cat. Draco noticed that the beast looked sort of thinner than he remembered. It’s coat wasn’t as bright as it had been before. There was a wind, whistling faintly somewhere. Draco could hear a couple voices down in the common room.

“Sorry I left you alone out there,” said Draco.

“It’s okay,” said Corey cheerfully, “I’m a really scary magical monster, after all. I understand why you didn’t want to come visit me.”

“You _are_ scary,” Draco agreed, “But it is sort of hard to believe you’re a real monster sometimes. Aren’t you supposed to be more bloodthirsty?”

The manticore raised its eyebrows. “Is that a complaint? I could rip you in half if you’d like.”

“Just an observation,” he said hastily.

The manticore had an unmistakably smug sort of look on its face.

“So who is that person you’ve been meeting with? The one who attacked Hogwarts?” Draco asked.

The smug look slipped off like an egg yolk dripping down a wall.

“I’m not angry with you or anything,” he added, “I’d just like to understand what’s going on.”

Corey hummed contemplatively. “Okay. Well. It’s an entirely superficial business relationship where she gives me good steaks and I tell here where to point her car. But I don’t know what she wants with Hogwarts and I don’t care enough to ask. Here’s something more important though, Dray-co. Have you written to my–, um, have you written to Samira at all?”

Draco narrowed his eyes. He hadn’t, actually. He didn’t want to risk Rhiannon’s health on such a long journey… though perhaps his lack of correspondence with her could be taken as an insult. Perhaps Corey was right, and he ought to write to her.

“Because I’d like you to write one now,” said Corey, “And I want you to write her a message from me. _I remember what you’ve done_.”

He frowned at the beast. “Why don’t you tell me what that means?”

“I can’t and I won't! Just remind her. I want her to _remember_ me, since I’m not around to piss on her things.”

Something clicked in Draco’s mind. He suddenly felt a flicker of excitement, the kind that came from catching wind of the really juicy sort of gossip. “Does she want me to kill you because you've got _dirt_ on her?”

“I can’t say why she wants to have me killed. Shouldn’t the fact that I’m a monster be enough?” And then then Corey stood up, and leaped from Draco’s bed, ignoring the invisibility cloak that had snuck the beast into the dorms. “Come on, I want you to take me to where the _food_ is in this moldy joint.”

“No, _Corey_ , no! You can’t just go–!” Draco scrambled out of bed himself.

Corey could not be dissuaded from bounding through the halls of Hogwarts in broad daylight, in front of hordes of young, terrified witnesses, with Draco chasing after the beast and hollering ineffectual orders.

Draco received detention for letting the manticore loose in the school. This was all _sorts_ of unfair, since it was all Potter's fault, really. But since Corey hadn’t done anything worse than thoroughly traumatize all the first-years by putting Abigail Abernathy’s head in its mouth and demanding a plate of raw steaks or _else_ (Corey had spat Abigail out eventually when the steaks were procured), McGonagall permitted the creature to stand guard at the entrance to the unity-house common-room, where it wouldn’t let you pass until you answered the most annoying of riddles, or tossed it an offering of raw meat. Or perhaps she, like everyone, couldn't actually prevent the monster from doing whatever it liked.

**

Christmas break couldn't come quickly enough. When it did, Corey took up a lot of space in the train compartment.

Draco’s mother came to meet him and Corey on the platform at King’s Cross.

“Hello, darling,” she said, giving Draco a quick hug. “And hello, Corey,” she said, a little cooly.

“Hi,” said Corey, wagging its tail. (The students nearby hastily dodged out of the way.)

“I’m afraid I haven’t had the chance to make sure the Manor is in fit shape to have us back,” said Narcissa, as the three of them piled into their carriage, “I’ve been ever so busy dashing around and getting things done, I’ve hardly spent any time at the Manor lately. Of course the elves will have taken care of the basics, but I don’t fully trust them with putting up the adornments, you know, sometimes they just pick out Yule decorations from the last century and pair them so _distastefully_ with the more modern trappings…”

And she went on in that vein for a while.

Their carriage finally pulled up in front of the iron gates. Draco was looking forward to a good long uninterrupted soak in his own bathtub. The carriage-pulling night-mares paused. They tossed their dark heads, snorted sparks, and pawed their fiery hooves against the road. The gates did not open.

“ _Now_ what is the matter?” his mother muttered impatiently. She opened the door of the carriage and stepped out. She walked up to the gates, and stood there, hands on her hips. Corey leaned out the open carriage-door, craning its neck and sniffing at the air.

“Ooh, y’all are shit outta luck,” said the manticore, “Smells like the wards don’t recognize you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this one took a while to come out for some reason LoL.. anyway have a good weekend and tell me what u think


	16. Harry: Asunder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Threats and a flying horse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i think..... this chap's a little more exciting but U be the judge, the jury, the executioner.  
> also GUESS WHAT i got some SWEET fan art  
> 

Christmas break was lovely and relaxing, if a bit lonely sometimes. Ron had gone home to the Burrow, and Hermione to her parents. Harry went back to Grimmauld place because… well, if he wasn’t going to have his friends around with him at Hogwarts, he might as well go home and work on the house a bit more.

What he didn’t bargain for was all the paperwork he’d been stalling on while at school. He _had_ been keeping abreast of the updates his solicitors had sent him. But hadn’t really had the chance to really dig in, what with all the NEWT work and trying to figure out who could possibly have attacked Hogwarts at the start of term, and for what purpose.

That, and the fan mail. He felt sort of guilty about using most of it as kindling, but there was far too much of it for any reasonable person to respond to it all. Gwydion would be run ragged trying to do so. At least the quantity seemed to be dwindling over time.

A few days into the break, he’d finally sorted through all his pent-up mail and was in the middle of writing an answer to Advisor Ripley, when there was a thumping at his front door.

Harry paused. He wasn’t expecting any visitors. The owlish magic that allowed his admirers to send him letters thankfully didn’t extend to letting everyone know his home address. Thinking that maybe Andromeda Tonks or Ron had decided to stop by, he put down his quill and went to the door.

There sat Corey, wearing a shit-eating grin.

Harry stared, and then moved to shut the door, but the manticore stuck its paw in, and halted it.

“Haaaaaaaarry Potter!” the manticore said, “I _know_ you weren’t about to slam the door in my face, _were_ you?”

“Er. What do you want?” said Harry, warily.

“I just have a message from our mutual pal, Draco. It’s this.” Corey cleared its throat. “ _Dearest Potter, give us back our property at once or I’ll set Corey on you. Love and Kisses, Draco Malfoy._ And! In case you were wondering what that means! He specifically told me that I could take off one of your legs! And eat it!”

Corey grinned toothily.

Harry shuffled back from the door slightly. He wondered a bit at the _Love and Kisses_ bit, and decided that it was more likely than not Corey's embellishment. “Right… Can I bribe you or something so that I _don’t_ have to take either of those options?”

Corey appeared to consider this, flicking the tip of its stinging tail back and forth. “I mean, I _really_ could go for some human flesh. Surely just one leg won’t cramp your style too much?”

“Erm… how about if I get you invited to a big Christmas dinner? No human flesh on the menu, though.”

Corey’s tail stilled. “With a place-setting at the table for me and everything?”

“Sure, why not?”

“Fine! Draco is going to be _so_ mad at me. But I’d call your lawyers. I do think he’s going to figure something out. He does _not_ like the hotel we’re staying at. And the hotel doesn’t like me. Can I stay here at your house?”

“Er, no, sorry,” said Harry, and cast a repelling charm, which pushed Corey back out of the doorway. Harry snapped the door shut quickly, as the manticore snarled.

“ _I want a full course meal or its both your legs, Harry Potter!”_ it yowled.

Harry went back to the letters and tried to figure out how best to convince Molly Weasley to let him bring along a manticore to her Christmas dinner.

**

It took an awful lot to cajoling to get Mrs. Weasley to allow Corey to come to Christmas. But as it turned out, the manticore never arrived. This was a relief to everyone involved. Later, though, Harry would suspect that this had been an ill omen.

A few days after Christmas, Harry was walking about in downtown London with Ron and Hermione, doing some muggle shopping. It was always more fun to do this sort of thing with friends.

Hermione was just about to pull them into a used bookstore, when a commotion exploded from the street – cars honking, people hollering, and the sound of something big crashing into something else.

Harry whirled, wand already in hand. The back of a delivery truck that had been parked by the side of the road had been thrown open, letting loose a very large, very irate winged horse. Most of the muggle bystanders were standing and staring, apparently too shocked to be afraid. And one was running _up_ to the beast, perhaps hoping to calm it. The horse reared up on its hind legs, wings flapping furiously, gleaming hooves cutting the air, eyes rolling madly, and the muggle barely dodged a blow to the head.

“Get _back!”_ Harry yelled, and tried to cast a shield spell around the muggle. But all he got was a few feeble sparks to shoot from his wand. There was a sort of jarring vibration in his hand that recoiled and shot all the way up his arm and neck, straight to his heart, where it _clanged_ like a loud, sickening bell.

Harry reeled back, almost hitting the display-window of the bookstore, but Ron caught him. And then quickly let him go, as Harry doubled over and emptied his stomach on the sidewalk.

“Harry!” Hermione exclaimed, and raised her wand.

“Don’t!” Harry coughed, spitting up sour spit, but it was too late. Hermione tried to cast something, and then she shivered, and staggered, and fell to her knees, clutching at her gut and trying desperately not to vomit.

But none of the bystanders noticed. They had eyes only for the winged horse, who had stampeded into the street, smashed the windshield of an automobile with its hooves, and leaped up into the air. Harry saw the flash of a camera go off.

“Fucking hell,” Ron swore. He was kneeling next to Hermione, arm wrapped round her shoulders. “Whatever nutter let that horse loose is going to be in for it when the Department of Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures catches up with them. And what’s happened to you two?”

Harry straightened, shakily. “I don’t know. Something’s interfering with our magic.”

They watched the horse sail away into the sky. Most of the muggles in the street were still watching it, but some were already starting to go about their business again.

Hermione gulped a few times, and then said, “We should stick around and wait for the Ministry to show. They’ll be wanting to hear our perspectives.”

They decided to wait for the Ministry officers inside the warmth of the bookstore. Harry stood by the window, watching the street while Hermione browsed the shelves. It took the officers about half an hour to show up. It wasn’t too hard to pick them out – they all were clothed in the distinct sort of fashion of wizards who were trying very hard to look like muggles, and not quite managing it.

Harry caught Ron’s eye, who tapped Hermione on the shoulder, and the three of them went outside and walked up to one of the Ministry officers, who was speaking soothingly to one of the muggles on the street and drawing her wand.

“Wait!” Harry called, as the officer began to cast an _Obliviate._

The spell backfired just as his and Hermione’s had done, and the officer fell on her butt, and then rolled over and dry-heaved into the gutter. The muggle looked down at her, made a face, and continued to chat animatedly with his friends about the horse.

Harry helped the Ministry officer up. “Come over here, we saw all of it,” he said.

She was a short, chubby witch with greying hair and a very ostentatious pair of lime-green glasses shaped like the wings of a bird. Her gaze fixed on his face.

“You’re–”

“Harry Potter, yeah,” he said quickly, before she could start effusing about it, “Look, there’s something strange going on here. Hermione and I couldn’t cast anything either.”

“…Oh,” said the witch finally, and looked over at the animatedly chatting muggles. The man she’d tried to obliviate was showing everyone who passed an image of the winged horse he’d taken on his digital camera. Harry craned his neck and saw that it was small and blurry, but quite unmistakable. “Oh dear. What are we supposed to do if we can’t cast memory charms?”

“We should take that picture thing away from him, for starters,” said Ron. He looked expectantly at the Ministry witch.

The witch looked appalled. “Do you expect me to go _mug_ the muggle?”

Ron snorted, and then muttered under his breath. “Muggle mugging.”

“It’s not funny, Ron,” said Hermione sharply.

“Not with that attitude,” said Ron.

Harry raised his wand and almost cast an _Accio,_ before stopping himself.

“Right,” he said grimly, “Ron, Hermione, make a scene. I’ll mug the muggle.”

“What kind of scene?” Ron asked.

“I’ll yell at you for the Christmas gift you gave me,” said Hermione.

Ron rounded on her, looking wounded. “You didn’t like it?”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “It’s the _scene_ , Ron,” and then raised her voice to a piercing, angry, shout, “ _Honestly, Gerald!_ I gave your sister that necklace last year! Did you think I wouldn’t _notice?”_

Ron put his hands up, babbling incoherently as Hermione shook her finger in his face, sparks practically flying from her eyes. Harry nodded approvingly as the muggle with his camera turned around at the ruckus. He took a deep breath, stowed his wand securely, and sprinted at the muggle, grabbing the camera and bolting.

“Oi!” the man shouted, angrily, “Oi, he’s stolen my camera!”

Harry didn’t look back, just kept his eyes forward and dodged through the bystanders, one of whom snatched at him, but missed. He rounded the corner, prayed that Apparition would work, and focused on the front step of Grimmauld place.

As he turned in place, he felt the jarring vibration again, writhing and clawing at his ribcage, dragging at his face and hands. But he managed to push through it, and whirled on the front step. And then he was blinded by pain.

“Argh, fuck,” he swore, and doubled over, dropping the camera to the ground with a _crack._ His left eye was throbbing, and he couldn’t see through it. He squinted with his right eye, and saw that the skin (and some of the flesh) on his hands had been grated clean off in patches, blooming red with blood. His left ear was stabbing with pain too, and there was an agony deep in his gut. He coughed painfully, and sank to the ground.

“Kreacher,” he whispered, “ _Kreacher_ , please help.”

With a _pop_ , the house-elf appeared. Harry didn’t see his face, but heard a sharp gasp. “Master!”

“Sorry to bother you,” Harry said faintly, “But I’d appreciate it if you could get me to St. Mungo’s, if you wouldn’t mind too much.”

He felt a small, bony, hand grip his elbow, and heard a _pop_ , and they appeared seamlessly in the St. Mungo’s waiting room. After that, everything was vague and hazy. His vision came and went in dark grey clouds. He heard his name several times, and his friend’s voices, and he tried to answer the Healer's questions but had a hard time doing so.

And then he woke up in a clean white hospital bed. He still couldn’t see out his left eye.

“Harry!”

He turned his head, and saw that Ron, Hermione, and Kreacher were sitting next to him. Hermione had her hands clapped over her mouth and nose. Ron let out a heavy breath.

“Master lives!” Kreacher exclaimed croakily.

“Yeah, thanks,” Harry said hoarsely.

Ron raised his fist, about to punch Harry in the shoulder, and then stopped himself.

“You practically splinched yourself to the underworld and back,” said Ron.

“You were _so_ lucky Kreacher brought you here right away!” said Hermione.

“The Ministry’s given you a fine for Apparating without a license,” said Ron.

Harry rolled his eyes, and then felt a stabbing pain in his left.

Ron laughed. “I know! They might as well slap you with a fortune in fines for all the times you did it last year. You’re one of the best Apparators I know, I’d _hate_ to think what would’ve happened to _me_ if I’d tried to Apparate out of there. I’d probably have decapitated myself.”

“I should’ve told you not to Apparate,” Hermione whispered furiously, “I’m so sorry, I should’ve thought–”

Harry waved a hand, and then winced and put it back down. “Guys, it’s fine. I’ve had worse. I’ve actually died before, it’s not that big a deal.” 

“No, actually, this has been _really_ bad,” said Hermione, somber, “They’ll go easy on you with the fine, I’m sure. All over London, spells have been backfiring. There’s nearly twenty more _awful_ splinchings being treated right now.”

“Yeah,” said Ron, and lowered his voice, pointing surreptitiously across the room, “There’s a guy in the next bed who lost his bollocks. You should count yourself lucky.”

Harry snorted. Hermione slapped Ron’s shoulder and said, _“Ron!”_

“So how long is it going to take me to get all my parts back?” Harry asked. Ron’s grin fell a little.

“Harry…” Hermione said, “You’re going to be late to school. They’re not totally sure they can fix everything. This wasn’t a normal splinching.”

Harry wondered what exactly a normal splinching was, and how his case differed.

“Er, what happened to my eye? Was it just some blood?” he asked hopefully.

Hermione and Ron winced at the exact same time. Hermione said, “You lost half your eye.”

“And the other half oozed out, I reckon,” said Ron, and Hermione slapped his shoulder again. “Maybe you can get one like Mad-Eye had, right? That’d be neat.”

“Thanks,” said Harry.

“Is there anything else Master needs?” Kreacher asked.

“Uh, yeah, actually,” said Harry, “If you could bring the camera I dropped on the front step, that would be great. But no rush.”

Two _popping_ sounds, and Kreacher put the camera on Harry’s bedside table.

“Thanks, Kreacher,” said Harry, “You can go do… whatever, I guess. Thanks for saving me.”

“Master is annoyingly polite,” Kreacher croaked, and vanished with another _pop_.

“You can get that camera to the Ministry, right guys?” Harry asked.

Ron nodded. “Yeah, ‘course.” And then he grimaced. “They might not want it though, with everything that’s happening. Dad says all the departments are going wild trying to figure out what to do, with magic on the fritz in London. St. Mungo’s protective spells have been flickering on and off. Luckily the muggles haven’t noticed, but it’s a matter of time, isn’t it?”

“I helped them put some paper up on the hospital storefront,” said Hermione, “It's a temporary fix, though, they have to keep peeling it back to let people through. I don’t know _what_ the Office of Misinformation is going to do, they haven’t figured out what’s causing it yet.”

“Hm,” said Harry, and shifted, and winced, “Wait, when did it start?”

“It was sudden,” said Hermione, promptly, “The first incident was at ten-thirty in the morning, in the middle of London. And then it started happening across the city, based on what I heard that Ministry witch telling your Healer. But…” She trailed off, and leaped from her chair. “Hold on, I need to check something.”

And she dashed out the door. Ron stared after her, and then looked back at Harry. “It’s bloody annoying when she does that, isn’t it?” he said, but fondly. 

“Yeah,” said Harry, “Hey, could you get me some water?”

“Nope, sorry,” Ron said, “The Healer told me not to, you’re still missing a chunk out of your stomach, if you drank anything it would just slosh out inside of you.” And then he saw the look on Harry’s face. “Relax mate, it’s stabilized, they’ll come fix it later.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> write 2 me, Nerd


	17. Draco: Rose Pee and Cold Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's cold outside. Draco can count on one hand the number of muggles he's ever met in his life and he'd prefer to keep it that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I haven't been here in Actually A Million Years but the important thing is I'm here now, aren't I? EY? And I have brought you a gift of words. Thanks. Couldn't do it without you.

Since the wards on the Manor were confused as to who the rightful owners were and refused to let them in no matter how loud the cajoling, the Malfoys were staying at a vacation bed-and-breakfast by the seashore. It made for a lovely place to visit in the summer. But it was not summer. The ocean winds were unceasing and frigid, sapping the heat right out of Draco’s favorite winter cloak, which had been woven with a warmth charm. He was rather worried that the charm was fading under the pressure of the seaside winter.

The host of the bed-and-breakfast disliked Corey, and expressed her dislike by performing loud cleaning charms just as Corey was settling in for a nap. Corey disliked the host right back, and expressed its dislike by urinating on her prized Rampaging Roses just as the host was taking tea and looking out her garden window. The Draco knew that this was a bitter revenge, since Corey loathed to set paw outside in the cold for even a second.

And mysteriously enough, Corey would occasionally go missing from the house. Draco couldn’t imagine that the beast would willingly brave the cold for anything less than the chance to savage a live human being. But there were no reports of missing persons, and the manticore always turned back up in the attic or the solarium after a day or two, reticent and smug.

“You’re meeting up with that steak-woman again, aren’t you?” Draco demanded.

“If I were, I wouldn’t tell you,” grinned Corey. “Now if you would excuse me, I have some roses to go water.”

It was some days after Yule (or Christmas, as the muggle-washed scum liked to call it), and after Corey’s return from another mysterious absence, that the Prophet came in with an absolutely sensational spread.

“You wouldn’t have anything to do with this London catastrophe, would you?” Draco asked Corey suspiciously, gesturing at the front page. The photograph captured a crowd of panicked muggles falling over themselves to get away from a tidal wave of rampaging pygmy puffs.

Corey looked up from where it had been lying on the couch, meticulously shredding a decorative throw pillow with massive claws. “What?” The manticore asked innocently, eyes wide and stinging tail-tip twitching, “What’s happened in London?”

“Oh, never mind,” Draco muttered, and turned the pages in the paper to read the rest of the article. Naturally, on page eight was a picture of Potter, bedridden at St. Mungo’s after having been injured while committing some heroic act or other. Draco stared at the image for a moment. He then smartly folded the Prophet back up. He’d got the gist of the story.

“What am I supposed to do with you, anyway?” Draco asked, and cast a Reparo on the cushion Corey had ruined. (The manticore hissed as the intricate embroidery sewed itself back up under its claws.) “Am I giving up on marrying Samira? Are you and I pals for life or something? How long do manticores live if they’re not slayed?”

“I dunno, how long do wizards live if I don't eat them?” Corey shot back, and tore a fresh hole in the throw pillow.

Draco rolled his eyes. “When are you going to stop pretending you’re going to eat me?”

“I ought to eat you a little just to show you I mean it,” said Corey, and then swallowed half the throw pillow, whilst maintaining eye contact.

Draco stood and left the manticore to its destructive devices. He fetched Hufflepuff’s bow, and his favorite cloak and gloves, and went down to the icy beach. He walked a ways down, to the spot on the bluffs where he liked to practice shooting, and conjured an arrow on the bowstring. He took aim at a seagull, and was about to let it fly when he heard a sound against the backdrop of rushing sea and wind.

It was like whistling, and it could have been wind. But no, it couldn’t be. It was melodic and high, a ghostly whisper on the crest of his hearing that rose and fell and rose again.

He lowered the bow. The arrow dissolved. The seagull flew on, happily ignorant of its close brush with death. Draco swiveled his head, searching for the source of the sound. He couldn’t find it, but he thought it might be coming from further up the shore, maybe up on the bluffs. So he set to walking.

The wind was even worse back up on the bluffs, but from there he thought he could see something in the distance, from where the sound was coming, travelling improbably through the rush of cold ocean wind to reach him.

As he got closer, he could make it out. A person, sitting on the hood of a muggle car. Something about the car was familiar…

He stopped short, just as the person straightened, and from the tilt of their head Draco could tell he’d been spotted.

“Hey!” they called. He turned and marched hastily back the way he’d come. “Hey!”

And then with a sudden rumbling, the stranger pulled up beside him in the car, one window rolled down and an arm waving out the window.

“Hey!” she exclaimed. Draco stopped in his tracks, and turned towards her with the iciest stare he could summon.

“Yes?” he sneered.

She was a muggle, surely, or a blood-traitor of the highest order. She was decked out in muggle stuff from her clothes to her car. But. But wait. If this was the same car he’d seen, the same car he’d shot from his dormitory, and this was the same woman who had tried to batter down Hogwart’s wards, surely she had to be a witch?

“I didn’t know anybody lived out here?” she said, in a common, mugglish accent, “I mean…”

Her eyes flitted to Draco’s bow, then traveled down to the hem of his cloak, then came back up to his face. Her eyes were dark, and sharp, and for a second they were strangely familiar. A big soft knitted cap was pulled down around her ears, but a curl of hair was escaping near one eye.

“What’re you doing out here, huh, with that bow and get-up?”

Muggle, surely. Surely not the same person who had attacked Hogwarts. But that blue car. And the flute. Hadn’t Potter said something about a flute? No mundane flute could carry a tune in this wind. So how could she be a muggle? And fuck. What was he supposed to do when confronted by a dangerous renegade?

“I’m shooting,” he said shortly. “What are you doing, playing a flute in weather like this? Aren’t your fingers freezing off?”

She smiled. “I’ve got warm hands, hun. Would you mind showing me that bow?”

“I would mind,” he said, “And I’d thank you to go on your way. This is private property.”

“Is it? There’s no signs or fences or nothin.”

“Maybe you missed them,” he retorted.

“My name’s Romona Greene,” she said, “What’s yours?”

“I don't have to tell you my name. Now, leave.” He gestured with his bow, away from the bed and breakfast.

“I’m looking for someone. Do you know anybody named Corey?”

Draco swore under his breath. “Morrigan’s sweaty pits.”

“What was that?”

Draco stared out across the bluffs, the icy crags of stone, the dark and deathly horizon of the sea. He gritted his teeth and looked back at Romona Greene.

“Yes, I know a Corey.”

“Does your Corey have red hair?” she asked.

Draco scowled. “Alright, cut the crap. What’ve you been plotting with my manticore?”

Romona grinned, her teeth white and stark against the brown of her skin, her eyes popping madly. “You’re a wizard, I knew it!”

“And what are you, exactly?” Draco demanded, “You foreign or something? American?”

“What? No.”

Draco gripped his wand, holding it close to his body so that she couldn’t see it. “Are you the person who attacked Hogwarts?”

“Whaaat? No.”

“Well if you’re not foreign, are you a squib? Where’d you go to school? You can’t be so much older than me that I wouldn’t remember you from–”

“Look,” she said breezily, still wearing that mad, grinning expression on her face (it bore a slight and disturbing resemblance to Corey’s grin), “Why don’t I drive you home? It’s cold as hell out here.”

“I’m not getting into that contraption,” Draco said haughtily.

“Hey, I take better care of my baby than I do of myself, she’s perfectly safe. I just have some questions for you, wizard-boy, and this car has heat.”

Heat. Now that she mentioned it, he was freezing his extremities off. His nose would probably break free and fall to the ground at any second. But still.

“Absolutely not. I’m not getting in a muggle contraption with some random witch.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Huh? I’m not a witch, I’m a normal person. Oh man. You thought I could do magic? I wish. I wish, damn.”

He stared at her, stunned silent. This was a breach of the International Statute of Secrecy. No. This was potentially a gaping floodgate in the International Statute of Secrecy. He ought to go home and send an owl to the Ministry immediately. But this surely meant that he was perfectly safe in her presence, even if she did happen to be a murderous lunatic. Should he get into the (heated, sweetly heated) car with her and gather some more information to send to the authorities?

No. That kind of rash and reckless thinking was strictly for Potter and his ilk. It was beneath him to have even laid his eyes upon this muggle machine and its muggle caretaker in the first place.

“I’m headed back to London after I drop you off,” said Romona cheerfully, “Christmas is over, and this bitch has a day job to get back to, don’t she?”

Draco took a deep, quiet breath. He reached for the car door and tapped on it with one finger.

“Fine,” he said, “I’m going to London too.”

“Sweet!”

He got into passenger side of the car, and called out, “Rhiannon!” His owl would catch up to them in a few hours when she felt like it.

“Gesundheit,” said Romona, and the car began to move.

The drive was rumbly, and noisy, and stinky. Romona had the crackling radio on in the vehicle, which played some sort of uncivilized muggle music that mostly sounded like discordant noise. The air was warm and dry, but had a sort of muskiness to it, a sort of combination of burning and mold and a flower perfume that didn’t really cover it all up.

Draco reflected on his uncharacteristic daring, and applauded himself on enduring this ride with poise.

“Your car is a dump,” he said, after the first ten minutes, “I’ve had nicer rides on the back of a one-winged Abraxan.”

“You shut your shit mouth,” said Romona immediately, and then cooed at the car and patted the wheel, “Don’t listen to him, babe.”

“So how do you know about witches and wizards?” he asked.

“I found out recently that my cousin’s one. Can you imagine how ticked I was? That dumb nerd got magic and I didn’t, I was so jealous. My aunt’s all oh yes a full scholarship for Cheltenham, we’re so proud, which turned out to be bullshit, and I had to put up with getting compared to her all the time. Do you know how annoying it is to be the fuck-up cousin? And to think she got magic on top of it all. Fuck.”

“Your cousin–” Draco said, running through all the muggle-borns and half-bloods at Hogwarts and wondering if he knew her.

But apparently Romona was in a groove. “Well there I was hacking into Cheltenham’s databases to figure out if I could get any dirt on her when it turns out? She didn't even fucking go to there, and it’s not like I could just bring it up at the next family gathering, she’d be there. Like, the nerve, I actually had to physically break into the school to get that information when it turns out that their website is just a stupid decorative piece of shit. So there I am hacking all the local schools trying to figure out where she’s actually been going, and then shit gets all weird last year? Suddenly we can’t even call them – my aunt and uncle and dumb cousin, I mean – and when my mom freaks out and goes to find her sister she finds out their flat’s been rented out to some other family for the past six months and she has a freakin’ nervous breakdown because suddenly it’s like her sister never existed and she goes into the family photo albums and can’t find her sister anywhere, and it’s like the whole family was a fucking fever dream we’d all had!”

Romona paused to take a breath. Draco was about to say something, but she went right back to ranting.

“And then! This summer they’re back! They’re fucking back! My cousin and her family and my mom’s gone practically hysterical because by then she’d been convinced that she’d imagined a whole sister, and turns out they were overseas? Just, vacationing or something, without bothering to tell her, and the family photos are fixed somehow? What the fuck. So I confront my stupid cousin, but she doesn’t say anything, so I try and find the electronic paper trail for this insane family and when I scrape her email, okay, I find a whole ton of wizard bullshit and I think she’s some kind of weirdo playing a game for weirdos, but then I start emailing some other weirdo who’s trapped in a wizard house in wizard email slavery and bored out of his mind. And it takes me a while to even come to terms with it, but the more I dig and the more I talk to this guy the more convinced I get, and then I met Corey and obviously there were no more doubts. So now I have some questions for you! Why the fuck do you wizard people not help out the rest of us with your magic, huh? Who do you think you are, keeping that all to yourself and dodging taxes and all? Why don’t you contribute to society?”

Draco stared at her. She was staring back at him, not even looking at the road. It was a miracle that they hadn’t crashed yet.

“What’s your cousin’s name?” he asked, but had a horrible sinking feeling that he knew already.

“Ugh, what do you know her? Hermione Granger,” said Romona, “Now answer me!”

Draco sighed, loudly. Of course it was Granger. Who else would have a muggle cousin smart enough and crazy enough and annoying enough to deliberately uncover the magical world and then immediately start complaining about justice and societal duty?

“I do have an answer for you,” said Draco coldly, “the answer is witch hunts. Now shut up and keep driving. Your raving has given me a headache.”

To Romona’s credit, she did shut up and keep driving.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> pls comment, thank u. bless.


End file.
